A°nn 

03 


AROUND 

THE 

EMERALD 

ISLE 

A     RECORD 

OF 

IMPRESSIONS 

By 

William  Charles  O'Donnell,  Jr., Ph.D. 

A 

BOSTON:    THE     ROXBURGH 

PUBLISHING   COMPANY   (INC.) 

BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARS" 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 


9  ,<jgx 


Copyrighted  1910 
Sy  William  Charles  O'Donnell,  Jr.,  Ph.D. 


All  rights  reserved 


DEDICATION. 

To  the  Best  Beloved  and  to  the  Fortunate 
Little  Man  who  has  inherited  many  of  her 
virtues. 


A  HINT. 

Impressions  do  not  always  coincide  with  ex- 
pert opinions  and  studied  conclusions.  They 
may  be  considered  as  treasures  of  the  heart 
rather  than  as  triumphs  of  the  mind.  The  lit- 
tle journey  of  which  this  book  is  a  partial 
record  was  undertaken  as  a  vacation  experi- 
ence, and  in  the  hope  that  some  pleasurable 
and  more  or  less  profitable  impressions  might 
be  received.  The  result  is  herein  described 
Twenty-three  of  the  thirty-two  counties  of  Ire- 
land were  visited,  characteristic  features  of 
different  sections  observed,  and  important  his- 
torical episodes  recalled.  The  story  of  Ireland 
is  so  pathetic,  the  position  of  Ireland  so 
unique,  and  the  Emerald  Isle  is  so  much  in  the 
thought  of  the  world  today  that  even  the  un- 
scientific comments  of  an  American  traveller 
with  a  liberal  percentage  of  Irish  blood  in  his 
veins  may  be  of  interest  to  the  reader — should 
there  be  one. 

The  Author. 

March  25,  1910. 


CONTENTS. 

Page. 

I.     Why?    9s 

II.     Evening  at  Queenstown 16 

III.     Youghal,  and  the  Blackwater 21 

IV.  The  City  of  the  Shandon  Bells. . .  .30 

V.  Blarney's  Secret 38 

VI.  A  Bit  of  Bog 41 

VII.     Glorious  Glengariff   44 

VIII.     The  Song  at  Twlight 50 

IX.  Limerick    61 

X.  A  Royal  River 67 

XI.  Clara  and  Athlone 81 

XII.     On  to  Sligo 87 

XIII.  Up  in  Ulster 92 

XIV.  A  Look  at  Londonderry 95 

XV.     Portrush  and  the  Giant's  Cause- 
way     99 

XVI.     Antrim,  the   Stronghold  of  Prot- 
estantism  107 

XVII.     The  Ford  at  the  Sand-Bank 112 

XVIII.     The  Holy  Hills  of  Armagh 118 

XIX.     Where  Winds  the  Boyne 127 

XX.     Doing  Dublin    140 

XXI.     Completing  the   Circle 163 


AROUND  THE  EMERALD  ISLE 
A    Record  of  Impressions 


I.      WHYf 

"For  we  will  make  for  Ireland  presently." 
Richard  II.,  Act  I,  Scene  IV. 

Why  make  for  Ireland? 

King  Richard  made  for  Ireland  to  Ireland's 
sorrow.  After  the  fashion  of  kings,  he  went 
for  plunder,  "to  farm  his  royal  realm." 
Purpled  robbers  might  thus  replenish  their 
coffers,  but  they  could  not  rob  the  hills  of 
their  strength,  the  lakes  of  their  laughter,  the 
rivers  of  their  peace,  the  bays  of  their  tides, 
nor  the  glens  of  their  fairy  shades. 

More  than  five  hundred  years  have  passed 
since  Richard  the  Second  landed  at  Waterford, 
and  Erin  is  still  flashing  her  crystal  glory  in 
the  Atlantic  wave.  The  heavens  bend  lovingly 
over  the  ' '  Noble  Isle, ' '  the  laurel  and  the  holly 
lift  their  shimmering  enamel  to  the  golden 
light.     The  fushia  nods  from  the  hedge-row, 


10  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

the  rhododendron  and  the  arbutus  hold  tryst 
in  quiet  retreats,  the  ivy  mantles  ancient 
walls  and  entwines  the  aged  oaks,  and  the 
purple  heather  crowns  historic  hills.  Such  is 
Ireland,  an  Emerald  Isle  in  very  fact,  where 
nature's  thousand  tongues  conspire  in  holy 
psalmody.  Erin  is  like  a  weeping  maiden 
whose  tears  have  not  despoiled  her  beauty, 
radiant  even  in  distress. 

The  ''make  for  Ireland"  habit  did  not  begin 
with  Plantaganet  kings.  By  no  means.  Far, 
far  back,  before  David  was  king  in  Israel  or 
Samuel  had  founded  the  School  of  the  Proph- 
ets, or  possibly  before  Moses  from  Nebo 
''viewed  the  landscape  o'er,"  the  Sons  of 
Milid  sought  here  a  home.  To  them  it  was 
the  Isle  of  Destiny,  Innisfail,  the  land  of 
promise.  The  poet  Moore  portrays  the  ap- 
proach in  musical  lines: — 

"And  lo  where  afar  o'er  ocean  shines 
A  sparkle  of  radiant  green, 
As  though  in  that  deep  lay  emerald  mines 

Whose  light  through  the  wave  was  seen; 
'  'Tis  Innisfail— 'tis  Innisfail!' 
Rings  o'er  the  echoing  sea; 
While  bending  to  heav'n  the  warriors  hail 
The  home  of  the  brave  and  free." 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  11 

Landing  in  Kenmare  Bay  they  conquered 
the  tribes  opposing  them,  built  forts  and  towns, 
inaugurated  a  military  and  judicial  system, 
advanced  somewhat  in  arts  and  literature, 
established  a  civilization  unapproached  in 
Western  Europe  and  became  the  progenitors 
of  a  wonderful  race.  What  soldiers,  what 
scholars,  what  orators,  what  poets,  what  musi- 
cians, what  tradesmen,  what  missionaries  those 
Irishmen  have  been! 

Other  invasions  antedate  that  of  the  Mile- 
sians. Eire  was  a  princess  of  one  of  these  more 
ancient  tribes,  and  by  some  inscrutable  law  of 
persistence,  her  name  continues  to  be  the  name 
of  the  country.  (E)ireland  it  will  be  through 
the  centuries  to  come. 

"Spring  and  Autumn  in  Ireland"  is  the 
title  of  a  charming  little  volume  written  by 
Alfred  Austin,  wherein  he  tells  us  that  he  vis- 
ited the  country  "in  search  of  natural  beauty 
and  human  kindness.  Nowhere  have  I  found 
more  of  either. ' '  In  yielding  to  the  lure  of  the 
land  of  Ossian,  the  Laureate  found  refreshment 
for  his  spirit  in  a  paradise  of  enchantment, 
and  chronicled  his  impressions  with  a  free  yet 
sympathetic  pen.  So  it  has  always  been,  for 
to  the    poet's    eye    Ireland    is    itself  a  poem. 


12  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

Ireland,  too,  has  poured  its  life  into  the  life  of 
the  world  as  no  other  country  has  ever  done. 

John  Wesley  was  vehemently  criticized  in 
London  for  spending  so  much  time  in  Ireland. 
"Have  patience,"  said  he,  "have  patience,  Ire- 
land will  repay  you."  He  crossed  the  channel 
annually  for  forty  years,  delivered  the  new 
evangel,  conducted  his  conferences,  saw 
Methodism  firmly  rooted  and  never  doubted 
the  full  fruition  of  his  hopes.  Wesley  evi- 
dently understood  Ireland  better  than  any 
Englishman  of  the  century.  The  last  his 
Dublin  friends  saw  of  him  was  when  a  few 
months  before  his  death  he  stood  upon  the 
ship 's  deck  and  lifted  holy  hands  above  them  in 
benediction  and  farewell.  It  was  a  most  solemn 
and  pathetic  scene.  The  aged  leader  with 
snow-white  hair  and  bowed  form  was  looking 
upon  the  tear-streaked  faces  of  those  who 
were  to  him  what  the  converts  at  Thessa- 
lonica  were  to  Paul,  his  "glory  and  his  joy." 
He  was  to  see  them  no  more  upon  the  earth. 
His  work  in  Ireland  was  done.  He  was  leav- 
ing them  in  tears,  yet  in  triumph.  Ireland 
had  already  repaid  Methodism,  and  had  given 
Adam  Clark  to  the  world,  and  Phillip  Embury 
and  Robert  Strawbridge  to  America,  here  to 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  13 

lay  firm  and  true  the  foundations  upon  which 
American  Methodists  have  been  building  from 
that  day  to  this.  The  pioneer  became  the 
preacher.  To  such  men  our  country  owes  a  debt 
of  lasting  gratitude.  Their  influence  is  every- 
where evident.  To  the  operation  of  such 
subtle  forces  can  be  attributed  the  ever  grow- 
ing vigor  of  the  Republic,  so  that  today  we 
can  applaud  with  consistent  patriotism  the 
sentiment  expressed  by  the  lamented  Fred- 
erick Lawrence  Knowles: — 

"Why  linger  o'er  decrepit  shrine 
In  Hellas  or  in  Palestine? 
America   as  Greece  is  grand, 
America  is  Holy  Land." 

To  make  for  Ireland,  then,  is  to  follow  in 
the  train  of  a  noble  army  of  potentates, 
propagandists  and  poets.  A  humble  mortal 
may  be  allowed  to  fondle  whatever  sense  of 
•satisfaction  may  arise  from  that  considera- 
tion; he  is  not  compelled  to  depend  upon  it, 
however,  for  his  enjoyment  and  edification. 

Ireland's  greatest  length  from  point  to 
point  is  but  a  little  more  than  three  hundred 
miles,  its  breadth  about  one  hundred  and 
eighty  miles.  Within  its  area  of  less  than 
thirty-three  thousand  square  miles  are  curiosi- 


14  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

ties  and  charms  more  manifold  than  any  equal 
area  in  the  world  can  furnish.  There,  on 
''John  Bull's  Other  Island"  are  to  be  found 
attractions  incomparable,  and  problems  in- 
numerable— topographical  and  scenic,  archaeo- 
logical, sociological,  industrial,  political,  reli- 
gious. In  that  little  country,  smaller  than  the 
State  of  Maine,  are  to  be  found  the  largest 
lake,  the  greatest  river,  and,  with  one  excep- 
tion, the  loftiest  mountain  in  the  Kingdom. 
Irish  products  are  famed  the  world  over — the 
marble  of  Connemarra,  the  china  of  Belleek, 
the  crochet  of  Cork,  the  lace  and  bacon  of 
Limerick,  the  linen  of  Belfast,  the  poplins  and 
tweeds  of  Dublin  and  other  centers.  There 
are  the  ship  yards,  the  tobacco  factories,  and 
the  breweries  among  the  largest  in  all  the 
world.  There  are  great  cathedrals,  great 
universities,  great  libraries,  and  great  mu- 
seums. There  are  great  mansions  in  de- 
lightful demesnes.  There  are  picturesque  ruins 
of  castles,  monasteries,  abbeys,  towers  and  walls, 
In  old  cairns,  cromlechs,  mounds  and  monu- 
ments are  to  be  recognized  traces  of  a  pre- 
historic age,  ever  exciting  new  wonder  as 
they  are  the  more  thoroughly  explored.  The 
whole    Island    is    fringed   with     a     panoramic 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  15 

succession  of  rugged  headlands  and  rounded 
hills,  bewitching  bays,  estuaries  and  glens, 
while  fertile  fields  offer  up  their  incense  of 
rich  increase  to  the  Most  High. 

More  interesting  than  Ireland  is  the  Irish- 
man himself.  He  is  not  to  be  imagined  a  de- 
spairing pauper,  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
flippant  purveyor  of  haphazard  humor.  He 
may  be  poor,  and  sometimes  witty,  but  at 
heart  the  real  Irishman  is  a  philosopher  and 
a  patriot.  Humor  is  the  soul  of  his  philosophy, 
hope  the  life  of  his  patriotism.  In  some  sec- 
tions, filth,  wretchedness,  disease  and  poverty 
are  still  alarmingly  in  evidence,  but  the  pig- 
in-the-parlor,  the  shillalah,  and  the  inverted 
pipe  are  not  conspicuous  features  in  modern 
life.  Old  types  remain,  but  a  new  order  pre- 
vails. There  is  much  to  learn  and  to  unlearn, 
much  to  see  and  to  enjoy,  to  admire  and  to 
deplore   in   a  tour   around  the   Emerald   Isle. 


II.      EVENING    AT    QUEENSTOWN. 

The  joy  of  getting  aboard  is  infinitesimal 
compared  to  the  joy  of  getting  ashore. 

The  delightful  day  had  come.  As  if  by 
some  trick  of  enchantment  the  spectral  out- 
lines of  land  emerged  from  the  mist  on  the 
distant  horizon.  The  approach  to  Daunt 's 
Rock  was  like  the  gliding  of  a  phantom  ship 
through  an  opalescent  sea,  a  poem  in  color  and 
motion.  Around  and  above  us  circled  the  sea 
gulls  with  their  snowy  breasts,  and  gray  wings 
tipped  with  velvety  black,  so  numerous  that 
their  shadows  chased  each  other  across  the 
ship's  deck.  The  water,  a  shimmering  green, 
rolled  in  billowy  foam  from  the  cutting  prow, 
and,  shading  off  in  the  distance  to  a  trans- 
parent purple,  seemed  to  merge  into  the  filmy 
haze  that  hung  on  Old  Erin's  rugged  shore. 
Tennysonian  Sea  Fairies  waved  their  harps 
and  sung: — 

''And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of  the 
sand; 
Hither,  come  hither,  and  see; 
And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poising  wave 
And  sweet  is  the  color  of  cove  and  cave, 
And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be:" 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  17 

Cork  Harbor  was  entered  in  style  on  the 
Company's  tender.  The  channel  is  grimly 
guarded  by  forts  Carlisle  and  Camden.  The 
fairies  had  promised  me  a  sweet  welcome,  and 
I  did  not  fancy  those  frowning  old  sentinels 
with  the  furies  of  a  thousand  thunders  lurk- 
ing beneath  their  shaggy  brows.  I  was  for 
peace.  Bold  battlements  seemed  incongruous 
amid  the  prevailing  serenity  of  that  beautiful 
summer  evening.  Possibly  their  sullenness 
was  but  fortressed  dignity,  for  they  are  the 
protectors  of  what  many  believe  to  be  the 
"most  beautiful  harbor  in  the  world."  That 
primacy  may  be  contested  by  a  few  score 
other  harbors  likewise  renowned,  but  no  in- 
vidious comparisons  need  be  drawn  here.  No 
two  stars  are  alike  in  size  and  color,  yet  who 
can  determine  which  star  is  the  most  glorious, 
through  the  illimitable  spaces  of  God?  When 
loveliness  entrances  the  vision,  for  the  time 
being  that  loveliness  is  supreme.  There  were 
the  hospitable  shores,  the  receding  hills,  the 
swinging  waters,  the  gem-like  islands,  the 
bounding  boats  and  stately  ships,  and  yonder 
on  Great  Island,  built  into  the  hillside,  its 
streets  rising  in  tiers  and  in  the  center  its  rich 
Gothic  Cathedral,  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet 


18  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

above  the  shore  line,  was  the  crescent  city, 
Queenstown. 

In  my  ignorance  I  had  expected  to  find  at 
Queenstown  something  of  the  bang  and  bustle, 
the  confusion  and  the  grime  of  a  modern  sea- 
port metropolis.  Instead  I  found  an  almost 
ideal  watering  place,  equable  and  sedative  in 
climate,  picturesque  in  location,  graceful  in 
pose,  restful  in  spirit,  healthful,  contented, 
•clean,  somewhat  quaint,  and  quite  diminutive, 
with  a  population  hardly  numbering  ten 
thousand. 

On  the  third  day  of  August  1849,  the  young 
and  beloved  Victoria  first  set  foot  on  Irish  ter- 
ritory, landing  on  the  Quay  amid  the  crash- 
ing music  of  military  bands  and  the  joyous 
booming  of  guns.  Very  fittingly  the  name  of 
the  city  was  thereupon  changed  from  Cove  to 
Queenstown.  No  big  guns  thundered  to  the 
world  the  news  of  my  arrival,  the  importance 
of  the  event  not  being  fully  recognized  in  of- 
ficial circles  and  not  having  made  the  proper 
impression  upon  the  public  mind, — so  I  took 
my  place  all  unheralded  and  insignificant  in 
the  motley  throng  that  paraded  the  prom- 
enade. It  was  an  interesting  spectacle 
a  medley   of    merchants,    peddlers,    boatmen, 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  19 

fishermen,  soldiers,  sailors,  sportsmen,  loungers 
and  tourists  from  all  parts  of  the  world. 

Later  I  wended  my  way  up  to  the  Cathedral 
named  in  honor  of  St.  Colman.  I  have  seen 
more  magnificent  cathedrals,  but  none,  I  think, 
more  exquisitely  harmonizing  with  and  yet 
glorifying  its  environment.  Its  position  com- 
mands a  sweeping  view  of  the  city  and  harbor. 
The  shades  of  night  were  gathering  rapidly 
and  lights  were  glimmering  from  shore  and 
ship  even  as  the  heavens  were  sown  with  stars. 
The  Admiral  from  his  official  residence  was 
flashing  signals  to  his  flagship  below.  Yonder 
stretched  the  expanse  of  the  great  harbor  in 
which  there  is  plenty  of  room  for  the  entire 
navy  of  Great  Britain.  Before  me  lay  the  tide- 
kissed  islands,  and  the  sinuous  river  bearing 
love  tokens  from  the  sea  to  the  distant  cities. 
The  gauzy  clouds  seemed  to  be  brooding  in 
holy  meditation  above  the  silent  waters.  Even- 
ing's subtle  charm  enthralls  the  imagination 
and  with  tender  touch  weaves  over  the 
troubled  heart  of  man  the  silver  gossamer  of 
peace.  Mrs.  Embury  wrote  wisely: — 
"Go  forth  at  eventide; 
Commune  with  thine  own  bosom,  and  be  still ; 
Check  the  wild  impulses  of  wayward  will, 
And  learn  the  nothingness  of  human  pride." 


20  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

Even  while  I  stood  and  gazed,  absorbed  in 
the  fascinations  of  the  wondrous  scene,  the 
red'  rim  of  the  moon  appeared  on  the  horizon 
and  soon  the  full  orb  emerged  with  the  stately 
steppings  of  a  queen  approaching  her  zenith 
throne.  The  soft  light  transmuted  all  that  it 
touched  and  I  saw  a  vision  wrought  in  ivory, 
silver  and  gold,  a  section  in  miniature,  it 
seemed,  of  that  enduring  country  where  there 
is  no  need  of  sun  or  moon  and  where  the 
waters  like  a  crystal  sea  flow  by  the  throne  of 
God  forever  and  forever.  Such  is  memory's 
picture  of  Ireland's  Queen  City. 


IIL      YOUGHAL,    AND   THE   BLACKWATEB. 

Consider  the  jaunting  car.  In  ratio  of  jolts 
to  distance  it  is  about  midway  between  the 
trolley  and  the  camel.  It  is  a  rattling  two 
wheeler  like  the  caleche  of  Quebec,  with  the 
difference  that  the  car  will  not  allow  one  to 
face  the  music  or  whatever  might  lie  in  the 
line  of  motion.  Going  forward  sidewise,  and 
back  to  back  with  the  other  fellow,  is  hardly 
in  accord  with  the  American  plan  of  progress. 
The  "jarvey, "  as  the  driver  is  called,  is  sup- 
posed to  be  a  laughing,  loquacious,  learned 
lad,  (alliteration  unavoidable)  dispensing  a 
perennial  mixture  of  humor  and  information 
for  the  delectation  and  illumination  of  be- 
nighted pilgrims.  He  is.  He  does.  That  is 
if  you  happen  to  fall  in  with  that  particular 
jarvey.  Some  members  of  the  profession  to 
whom  I  have  paid  my  shillings  hardly  meas- 
ure up  to  the  reputation. 

My  acquaintanceship  with  the  jaunting  car 
began  at  Youghal,  an  ancient  coast  town 
about  twenty-six  miles  from  Cork.  My  com- 
panion was  a  young  architect  from  Cork  off 
for  a  holiday,  and  together  we  bargained  with 


22  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

the  driver  at  the  station  to  take  us  to  the  fam- 
ous old  Collegiate  Church  of  St.  Mary's.  Like 
the  fabled  steeds  of  Eumelas,  swift  as  birds, 
that  Irish  critter,  though  no  classical  beast, 
seemed  to  have  wings.  Away  we  flew  along 
the  Strand,  past  the  lodging  houses  and  pretty 
homes  that  face  the  chafing  sea,  past  the  light- 
house, snow-white,  one  of  the  thirty  odd  that 
stud  Ireland's  ragged  coast,  on  through  the 
main  street  a  mile  long,  then  through  a  series 
of  narrower  streets  and  up  the  hill  to  the  an- 
cient churchyard  gate.  I  alighted  somewhat 
shaken  but  in  herioc  mood.  A  dash  across  the 
Madison  Square  Garden  arena  on  a  broncho  of 
the  Colonel  Cody  bucking  type  could  hardly  be 
more  exciting,  and  I  felt  that  I  deserved  the 
applause  of  the  audience  for  having  mastered 
the  jouncing  machine  in  its  wildest  plunges. 
My  fingers  ached,  the  logical  effect  of  the 
desperate  grip  I  had  maintained  on  the  back 
of  the  seat.  Sore  in  muscle  and  stiff  in  joint 
it  was  some  minutes  before  I  could  walk 
naturally.  Of  course  all  this  was  absolutely 
unnecessary  and  may  seem  a  trifle  exagger- 
ated, but  the  sensations  of  a  new  experience 
are  usually  recalled  with  some  animation. 
St.  Mary's  at  Youghal  enfolds    the    history 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  23 

of  many  centuries.  It  preserves  the  names  of 
the  honored  of  long  generations.  The  makers 
of  history  are  surpassingly  more  impressive 
than  places  and  events.  The  place  and  the 
event  proclaim  the  measure  of  the  man.  So 
Grant  is  taller  than  Vicksburg,  Wellington 
broader  than  Waterloo,  Napoleon  outmeas- 
ured  Austerlitz,  and  Michael  Angelo  is  ever 
grander  than  St.  Peter's. 

They  speak  at  Youghal  of  Richard  Bennett, 
who  built  the  church  on  the  site  of  an  older 
one  in  the  13th  century;  of  Gerald,  Earl  of 
Desmond,  whose  soldiers  desecrated  it  in  the 
16th  century;  of  the  Earl  of  Cork,  who  re- 
stored it  in  the  17th  century,  not  forgetting  to 
honor  himself  with  a  wonderful  monument 
adorned  with  effigies  of  his  wives  and  his  nu- 
merous progeny.  This  was  the  Great  Earl,  I 
suppose,  whose  fourteenth  child  was  Robert 
Boyle,  the  renowned  scientist,  the  sturdy  de- 
fender of  the  Faith,  and  the  founder  ol  Boyle's 
Lectures.  Oliver  Cromwell,  as  pious  a  mur- 
derer as  ever  let  human  blood,  once  stood  by 
an  open  grave  in  the  chapel  and  preached  to 
his  men  the  consolations  of  the  Gospel  of  the 
Prince  of  Peace.  Yes,  the  history  makers 
are  impressive. 


24  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

Just  behind  the  church  runs  the  old  city 
wall  and  just  beyond  the  wall  is  Maple  Grove, 
where  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  lived  and  smoked, 
and  entertained  distinguished  guests,  and 
where  he  planted  Ireland's  first  potato.  Sir 
Potato's  descendants  now  monopolize  590,000 
acres  of  Irish  soil.  The  versatile  Sir  Walter 
came  to  a  sad  end,  but  surely  his  works  do  fol- 
low him.  If  tobacco  growing  had  not  been 
prohibited  in  Ireland  it  would  undoubtedly 
have  assumed  large  proportions.  The  Ameri- 
can Colonies  reaped  the  benefit  of  that  em- 
bargo, raised  tobacco,  grew  prosperous  and 
became  independent.  Ireland  remained  sub- 
servient and  poor.  Yet  more  than  one-half 
the  soldiers  under  Washington  were  Irishmen! 
Hence  the  occasion  for  Lord  Mountjoy's  fam- 
ous declaration  to  the  British  Parliament, 
"You  lost  America  by  the  Irish."  Here 
is  one  of  the  fine  ironies  of  history, — one 
of  those  marvelous  might-have-beens  that  re- 
verse the  verdict  of  time.  Fancy  the  noble 
Ealeigh — ruffles,  doublet,  hose,  buckles,  pipe 
and  all — under  the  yews  of  Maple  Grove; 
Edmund  Spenser  at  work  on  the  "Faerie 
Queen,"  near  by,  further  enhances  the  charm 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 


25 


of  the  tableau.     It  was  even  so  in  the  opulent 
age  of  Elizabeth. 

Youghal  occupies  a  position  of  picturesque 
interest  and  advantage  upon  the  slope  of  a 
hill,  around  which  a  beautiful  river  swings 
into  the  sea.  The  Blackwater  is  known  as 
"The  Rhine  of  Ireland."  To  Cappoquin  is 
a  ride  of  about  eighteen  miles  between  sylvan 
shores  and  embowered  hills,  where  Ireland's 
green  is  greenest  and  where  ivy-grown  castle 
walls  and  ruined  abbeys  throw  their  distorted 
shadows  upon  the  passing  stream.  The  heav- 
ens were  black  above  us  on  that  July  after- 
noon when  we  steamed  up  the  river  and  the 
rain  fell  heavily  at  intervals,  somewhat  to  our 
discomfort.  The  wild  goose  and  the  slender 
heron,  feeding  in  the  rushes,  started  up  in 
alarm  at  the  approach  of  the  boat  and  flew  to 
more  sheltered  haunts.  Here  and  there  among 
the  hills  I  could  see  little  huts,  whitewashed 
and  thatched,  where  peasants  dwell  and 
dream  of  a  nationality,  the  meaning  of  which 
they  can  little  comprehend.  I  could  not  but 
admire  the  castles  and  summer  homes  of  the 
more  fortunate,  for  Ireland  the  land  of  squalor 
is  also  the  land  of  splendor.  While  poor  ten- 
ants huddle  in  their  hovels,  great  lords    and 


26  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

wealthy  merchants  luxuriate  in  their  palaces. 
There  are  a  number  of  elegant  residences 
along  the  Blackwater.  It  is  a  region  of  health- 
ful charm.  Rivers  are  life  bringers.  God  was 
very  good  to  Ireland  when  He  gashed  the  hills 
and  made  a  channel  for  the  coursing  flood  of 
that  beautiful  stream. 

Little  Cappoquin  nestles  among  the  trees  on 
an  emerald  slope  at  the  bend  of  the  river  from 
a  westerly  to  a  southerly  course.  Like  Zion, 
it  is  beautiful  for  situation,  and  if  not  the  joy 
of  the  whole  earth  is  at  least  a  joy  to  those  who 
are  privileged  to  behold  its  quaint  charms. 
The  climax  of  the  day  was  the  jaunting  car 
ride  through  the  long  single  street  of  the  town 
and  out  over  the  hills  to  the  Trappist  Monas- 
tery at  Mount  Melleray,  about  five  miles  dis- 
tant from  Cappoquin.  There  was  some  stir- 
ring of  the  deeps  of  sentiment  by  what  I  saw 
and  learned  at  Melleray.  There  was  a  subtle 
something  about  the  place  and  its  traditions 
that  quickened  the  imagination  and  penetrated 
the  emotions.  I  had  heard  a  pretty  story 
en  route  to  the  effect  that  the  monks  had 
leased  the  vast  tract  of  land,  nearly  six  hun- 
dred acres  in  extent,  for  a  period  of  time  that 
was  not  to  terminate  until  tomorrow.     Daniel 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  27 

0  'Connell  was  credited  with  having  drawn  the 
deed.  It  seemed  legally  dubious  but  it  was  a 
good  story.  I  thought  I  saw  a  splendid  moral 
in  it.  I  tucked  it  away  in  an  attic  brain  cell 
for  use  at  some  opportune  occasion.  My  in- 
formant was  no  less  distinguished  a  gentleman 
than  the  jarvey.  He  had  tons,  or  I  should  say 
miles  of  knowledge  to  impart.  He  knew 
everything  and  everybody  in  the  County.  1 
knew  nothing  and  nobody,  therefore  he  was 
invaluable.  I  sat  at  his  back  and  learned  of 
him,  literally  and  laterally.  The  grades  made 
no  more  difference  to  us  than  they  would  if 
we  had  been  in  an  air  ship,  "With  this  delight- 
ful unconcern  as  to  the  ups  and  downs  of  life 
we  sped  on,  my  education  keeping  the  pace. 

The  Trappists  are  among  the  most  austere 
of  the  Koman  Catholic  orders.  They  were  es- 
tablished in  France  in  the  12th  Century,  af- 
terwards fell  away  from  the  rigors  imposed  by 
the  founders  and  were  reformed  by  Ranee  in 
the  17th  Century.  They  now  have  monasteries 
in  several  European  countries  and  in  Amer- 
ica. Mount  Melleray,  I  believe,  is  one  of  the 
largest.  Sir  Richard  Keane  bestowed  the 
land  in  a  district  then  desolate  and  barren. 
Today    it     is     ambrosial.     The     hills     "stand 


28  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

dressed  in  living  green, ' '  the  fields  and  gardens 
render  rich  reward  for  the  labor  bestowed 
upon  them.  The  secret  of  the  transforma- 
tion is  the  open  secret  of  toil.  The  Brothers 
are  workers.  They  arise  at  2  a.  m.  and  go  to 
bed  at  8  p.  m.  They  eat  two  meals  a  day. 
They  are  vegetarians,  and  water  is  their  only 
drink.  They  pray  a  great  deal,  they  talk  only 
when  necessary.  They  read  only  religious 
books — no  newspapers,  no  magazines,  no 
novels.  Curious.  They  sleep  in  little  cubicles, 
on  hard  mattresses,  and  the  "dying  bed"  con- 
sists of  a  few  wisps  of  straw.  This  is  unworld- 
liness — self  abnegation  to  the  verge  of  self 
slaughter.  Yet  how  much  better  the  state  of 
the  monk  lost  to  the  world,  than  that  of  the 
worldling  lost  to  God ! 

We  were  met  at  the  door  of  the  quadrangu- 
lar building  by  a  Brother  in  brown.  The 
Fathers  wear  white.  He  escorted  us  most  af- 
fably, showing  the  chapel,  refectories,  dormi- 
tories, library,  etc.,  with  evident  pleasure.  He 
had  been  in  the  monastery  twenty-three  years. 
He  told  us  of  a  Brother  who  had  a  record  of 
more  than  sixty  years.  Think  of  three  score 
years  without  a  newspaper!  I  made  bold  af- 
ter a  while  to  ask  our  guide  about  that  tomor- 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  29 

row  story.  He  smiled  a  real  worldly  smile. 
That  is,  a  smile  of  contempt  imperfectly  con- 
cealed, a  smile  of  indulgent  forbearance  cal- 
culated to  make  the  recipient  feel  very  small 
indeed.  No,  there  was  no  truth  in  the  report 
whatsoever;  it  was  the  climax  of  credulity  to 
put  faith  in  such  a  yarn;  only  the  most  ig- 
norant would  believe  it;  to  repeat  it  was  only 
to  advertise  one's  folly.  His  smile  said  all 
that  and  more.  It  was  true  that  O'Connell 
had  spent  some  days  in  retirement  at  the  mon- 
astery and  had  examined  some  of  the  legal 
papers.     That  was  all. 


IV.      THE   CITY   OF  THE   SHANDON  BELLS. 

Life's  antitheses  illustrate  life's  meaning. 
We  turn  from  isolated  Melleray  to  crowded 
Cork — from  monastery  to  metropolis.  What 
is  a  city?  A  network  of  avenues,  a  surging  of 
masses,  a  babel  of  voices,  a  tumult  of  traffic,  a 
tyranny  of  trade,  a  commingling  of  classes  and 
nations.  Busy  shops  and  spacious  stores,  fac- 
tories, warehouses,  palatial  residences  and 
lowly  homes,  municipal  buildings,  colleges, 
hospitals,  libraries,  museums,  monuments, 
parks,  promenades,  bridges,  depots,  quays, 
churches,  cathedrals,  domes,  towers,  steeples, 
boulevards,  slums,  rattling  wheels,  groaning 
engines,  smoking  chimneys,  odors  rare  and 
odors  common — such  is  a  city,  a  medley  of 
miracles  and  a  miracle  of  medleys.  And  such 
is  Cork,  its  history  brimming  with  tragedy  and 
romance,  its  location  fortunate,  its  surround- 
ings picturesque,  its  manufactories  famous,  its 
trade  flourishing.  Corcaig,  meaning  marsh, 
was  the  name  originally,  but,  lo,  a  marsh  trans- 
formed into  a  municipality. 

Good  St.  Fin  Barre  established  a  monastery 
in  the  seventh  century  around  which  a  town 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  31 

slowly  developed,  a  propitious  beginning  for 
the  illustrious  city.  The  process  of  these  thir- 
teen centuries,  however,  brought  calamities  in 
multitudes.  Danes,  Normans,  Algerian  pirates, 
Ironsides,  and  Irish  rebels  in  their  turn  be- 
sieged and  possessed  the  place.  If  the  shed- 
ding of  blood  and  brilliant  contending  can 
consecrate  the  scene  of  its  enactment,  Cork  is 
holy  ground.  The  story  of  the  bloody  past 
seemed  hardly  credible  as  I  paused  upon  St. 
Patrick's  Bridge  and  looked  upon  the  busy 
waters  of  the  river  Lee,  and  then  along  St. 
Patrick's  Street  with  its  moving  throngs  and 
elegant  stores.  Thetfe,  too,  stands  Foley's 
eloquent  statue  of  Father  Mathew  erected  in 
1864  to  honor  the  memory  of  the  courageous 
" Apostle  of  Temperance."  To  be  informed 
that  Ireland  has  more  drinking  places  in  pro- 
portion to  wealth  and  population  than  any 
other  country  in  the  world— and  I  can  readily 
believe  it,  for,  while  not  on  the  hunt,  I  saw  a 
few  thousand  of  them  myself— to  be  so  in- 
formed, I  say,  is  to  devoutly  wish  for  some 
gladiatorial  apostle  to  strike  the  drink  demon 
to  his  death.  No  one  can  doubt  that  Ireland's 
"cup  of  woe"  is  due  in  large  measure  to  the 
Irishman's  glass  of  whiskey. 


32  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

Far  pleasanter  were  the  thoughts  that  arose 
as,  looking  back  upon  the  other  side  of  the 
river  I  saw  silhouetted  against  the  crimsoned 
sky  the  curious  old  spire  of  Shandon  Church 
where  still  chime  the  bells  popularized  by 
Francis  Sylvester  O'Mahoney,  better  known  as 
"Father  Prout."  The  poet  was  born  at  Cork 
in  1804.  The  bells  are  not  remarkably  musical, 
but  they  captivated  the  sensitive  soul  of  the 
child,  and  for  him  there  could  be  no  sweeter 
sound  on  earth.  His  genius  was  destined  to 
set  them  ringing  in  the  imagination  of  thou- 
sands who  never  saw  Shandon  Hill. 

"With  deep  affection 
And  recollection 
I  often  think  on 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 
On  this  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander 
And  thus  grow  fonder 

Sweet  Cork  of  thee; 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee.,? 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  33 

Where  St.  Fin  Barre  established  his  monas- 
ter}7 now  stands  a  noble  cathedral,  one  of  the 
handsomest  buildings  in  Ireland.  Its  pointed 
arches,  its  lofty  towers  and  spires,  its  well 
wrought  statues  and  rich  windows  harmonize 
in  a  structure  both  substantial  and  ornate. 
Looking  in  admiration  at  the  west  front,  with 
its  beautiful  portals  and  the  figures  of  the 
Bridegroom,  the  Ten  Virgins,  the  Evangelists 
and  Apostles;  the  gargoyles  representing  the 
conflict  between  Avarice  and  Liberality,  Pride 
and  Humility,  Iodlatry  and  Faith,  Sensuality 
and  Chastity ;  then  up  at  the  central  spire  240 
feet  high  and  ornamented  with  carvings  of  the 
four  beasts  of  Daniel,  I  felt  that  I  was  behold- 
ing more  than  a  "sermon  in  stone."  It  is  a 
volume  of  sermons.  Its  oratory  is  that  of  a 
thousand  sanctified  tongues.  It  speaks  with 
the  gathered  eloquence  of  thirteen  centuries. 

The  curious  feature  of  the  interior  is  the 
organ.  The  pipes  are  sunken  through  the 
floor  so  that  the  observer  may  look  down  upon 
them  instead  of  up  at  them.  This  was  done  to 
avoid  obstructing  light,  and  hiding  one  of  the 
exquisite  windows.  From  its  lowly  place  the 
instrument  sends  its  melody  high  up  into  the 
lofty   arches,   and   out  through  choristry    and 


•34  AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE. 

nave  filling  the  remotest  recesses  with  its 
ecstatic  sound.  Having  heard  such  music  it  is 
easy  to  believe  in  goodness,  and  peace,  and 
love,  and  angels,  and  in  a  heaven  whose  har- 
monies are  eternally  unbroken. 

I  went  from  the  Cathedral  to  Queen's  Col- 
lege, also  in  the  western  part  of  the  city   and 
most  becomingly  situated  on  an  eminence  over- 
looking  the   river.     Again   I   was    amply    re- 
garded.    It  is  an  ideal  spot  for  the  scholastic 
^training   of   ambitious   young   Celts.     "Where 
Fin  Barre  taught  let  Munster  learn,"  is    the 
inscription  upon  the  entrance  to  the  grounds. 
Munster  is  the  largest  of  the  four  provinces  of 
Ireland,   the   others   being   Ulster,   Connaught 
•and  Leinster.     The     inscription     invokes     the 
:  spell     of     centuries  .     In     fancy     one     sees 
'the     cowled     forms     of    the     scholars     of     a 
former     millenium     gathering     at     wisdom's 
'shrine  to  be  taught  by  the  great  founder  him- 
self, for  the  University  of  the  ancient  abbey 
stood  on  this  very  same  hill.  Today  the  spacious 
grounds  are  elaborately  laid  out.     There    are 
smooth   roadways,    winding    paths,     extensive 
lawns,  rare  varieties  of  trees    and    shrubbery, 
botanical   gardens,   greenhouses,    a    biological 
laboratory,   an   astronomical   observatory,    and 


AROUND     THE      EMERALD      ISLE.  35 

Berkeley  Hall,  a  magnificent  residence.  The 
college  buildings  are  built  of  light  limestone 
on  three  sides  of  a  square  and  contain  muse- 
ums, libraries,  class  rooms,  examination  halls, 
executive  offices — everything  in  fact  demanded 
by  modern  ideas  and  methods.  Queen's  Col- 
lege is  affiliated  with  colleges  at  Galway  and 
Belfast  in  what  is  known  by  Act  of  Parliament, 
as  the  Eoyal  Irish  University.  There  are  de- 
partments in  Arts,  Law,  Medicine,  and  En- 
gineering. The  subject  of  fees  is  always  in- 
teresting and  I  discovered  that  students  paid 
two  kinds  of  fees,  called  College  Fees  and 
Class  Fees — to  be  paid  of  course  before  ad- 
mission to  classes.  These  little  regulations  are 
important  in  the  educational  world.  The  Col- 
lege Fee  is  ten  shillings.  That  is  cheap.  The 
Class  Fee  is  one,  two,  or  three  pounds  for  a 
course  of  lectures  according  to  subject.  I  do 
not  know  how  cheap  that  is.  So  much  de- 
pends on  both  the  lecturer  and  the  lectured. 
It  was  pleasant  to  linger  amid  classic  shades 
and  to  think  of  the  days  when  Irishmen  were 
the  great  scholars  of  the  world.  Nor  has  the 
glory  all  departed.  The  present  incumbent  of 
the  honorable  office  of  President  of  Queen's 
College,  Cork,  is  an  excellent  man  of   letters. 


36  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

His  name  appears  in  the  Book  of  Regulations 
as  Bertram  C.  A.  Windle,  M.  A.,  D.  Sc,  M.  D., 
F.  B.  S.,  F.  S.  A. 

The  Court  House  is  a  building  of  which  the 
city  and  county  of  Cork  may  well  be  proud. 
At  the  time  of  the  Assizes,  the  Judge  is  a 
mighty  man  of  valor  and  honor.  He  is  radi- 
ant in  wig  and  scarlet  coat.  He  rides  to  the 
Court  House  in  elegant  equipage,  with  mili- 
tary escort.  *'It's  the  other  way  in  our  coun- 
try," said  a  Pennsylvania  judge  as  the  pageant 
flashed  by,  "with  us  a  judge  is  allowed  to  come 
and  go  like  an  honest  man."     Was  he  envious? 

Cork  is  a  city  of  a  few  great  avenues  broad 
and  clean,  and  of  many  lanes  crooked  and  un- 
clean. During  an  evening  stroll  through  some 
of  these  narrower  streets  I  caught  frequent 
glimpses  of  the  squalor  concerning  which  so 
much  has  been  written  and  said.  The  Irish- 
man's proverbial  indifference  to  dirt  is  un- 
questionably a  factor  in  the  problem  of  the 
South.  In  a  particularly  unwholesome  alley  I 
noticed  a  group  of  barefooted  children  pad- 
dling in  the  filthy  drainage.  My  attention 
was  again  attracted  by  a  number  of  pitifully 
ragged  boys  who  had  scraped  a  quantity  of 
mud  from  the  gutter  and  were  piling  it  in  a 


AROUND     THE      EMERALD      ISLE.  37 

pyramidal  heap.  I  watched  the  proceeding 
for  a  few  minutes  wondering  what  the  climax 
of  the  sport  was  to  be.  The  mud  pyramid 
rose  higher  and  higher  until  its  size  seemed  to 
satisfy  the  ambition  of  the  builders.  Then 
they  withdrew  about  equal  distances,  in  differ- 
ent directions,  with  much  shouting  and  chal- 
lenging and  gesticulating.  The  denouement 
was  about  to  be  revealed.  It  awaited  only  the 
signal.  Excitement  ran  high.  The  audience 
was  athrill  with  expectancy.  Suddenly  there 
was  a  terrific  charge  upon  the  mud  heap.  The 
first  lad  to  get  within  reach  gave  it  such  a 
vigorous  kick  that  his  competitors  were  be- 
spattered from  head  to  foot.  The  kicking  con- 
tinued from  all  directions  until  the  pyramid 
had  been  transferred  in  sections  to  the  anat- 
omies of  the  kickers.  Obviously  they  resembled 
a  company  of  American  politicians  after  a  live- 
ly campaign.  It  was  glorious  fun.  The  lads 
proceeded  immediately  to  gather  more  mud 
and  I  went  on  my  way  indulging  an  impression. 


BOSTON  COLLEGE   LIBKAKY 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 


v.    blabney's  secbet. 
"Did  you  kiss  the  Blarney  Stone V 

Some  centuries  ago,  at  about  the  time  when 
Christopher  Columbus  was  a  little  round  leg- 
ged lad  at  play  in  a  narrow  street  in  Genoa, 
there  lived  in  the  south  of  Ireland  a  great  and 
famous  man  by  the  name  of  Cormac  Mc- 
Carthy, full  chested,  brave  hearted,  glib  ton- 
gued.  He  it  was  who  built  a  castle  at  Blarney, 
a  little  town  about  five  miles  from  Cork.  The 
castle  was  one  hundred  and  twenty  feet  high, 
with  massive  walls  and  a  square  tower.  It  was 
a  mighty  fortress,  practically  impregnable. 
In  spite  of  the  disfigurements  of  time  and  bat- 
tle it  has  now  an  isolated  nobility  like  that 
of  the  scarred  hero  among  recruits.  Mounting 
the  stone  steps  to  the  top  of  the  tower,  there  is 
no  difficulty  in  locating  the  talismanic  stone. 
The  "really  true"  Blarney  Stone  is  a  sill  upon 
the  south  side  of  the  battlement,  about  twenty 
feet  from  the  top,  It  is  reenforced  by  bands  of 
iron  with  a  railing  extending  to  it  upon  the 
outside  of  the  wall.  The  individual  who 
would  attempt  to  reach  it  head  downward,  af- 
ter the  traditional  style,  would    be    so    hope- 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  39' 

lessly  a  stranger  to  wisdom,  that  the  kissing 
of  a  thousand  Blarney  Stones  would  be  of  no 
avail.  By  bending  the  head  backward  through 
an  opening  from  the  inside  of  the  projecting 
wall,  and  with  the  aid  of  a  supporting  rod,  the 
osculatory  act  might  be  safely  performed,  and 
the  "sweet  and  persuasive  eloquence"  ob- 
tained. No,  I  did  not  do  it.  I  touched  the 
magic  spot  with  the  ferrule  end  of  my  faith- 
ful umbrella,  however,  and  the  subtle  in- 
fluence connected  itself  with  my  tongue  by 
way  of  umbrella  stick.  0,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  about  it  whatever.  As  I  felt  the  cur- 
rent rising  through  my  arm  I  determined  to 
achieve  fame  by  announcing  to  the  world  this 
new  and  easy  method  of  obtaining  wit  and 
eloquence.  At  last,  the  coveted  gift  was 
mine !  But  woe  is  me !  I  had  neglected  at 
the  supreme  moment  to  close  my  lips  and  the 
precious  token  under  the  impetus  of  its  own 
acceleration  escaped  to  the  free  and  fickle 
winds.  This  is  the  truest  Blarney  story  ever 
told.  It  is  very  evident  therefore  that  to  ob- 
tain the  greatest  benefit  from  the  Blarney 
Stone  one  must  keep  his  mouth  shut.  The 
secret  is  out. 

"Beauteous    Blarney"  is    no    myth.     Come 


40  AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE. 

stand  with  me  for  a  moment  upon  the  ancient 
battlement.  Bear  your  head  to  the  ozonifer- 
ous  breeze.  Lift  your  cheek  to  the  warming 
rays  that  sift  through  the  thinning  clouds. 
Look  down  upon  those  sturdy  trees  that  sea- 
son after  season  lift  their  banners  to  the  land- 
scape and  fling  out  their  message  of  the  life 
that  ne'er  shall  end.  Down  there  in  the  fairy 
dell  where  the  brook  is  singing  its  lullabys  to 
the  birds  is  the  home  of  the  blue  bell,  the  but- 
tercup, and  the  daisy.  There,  too,  the  tiny 
shamrock  whispers  contentment  to  the  cud- 
dling sod.  Afar,  to  the  North,  to  the  South, 
to  the  East,  to  the  West — everywhere  rolls  the 
panorama  of  glad  hills,  fertile  fields  and  sil- 
vered streams.  Drink  in  the  glory  of  the  day 
and  scene,  and  thank  kind  Heaven  that  you 
are  not  a  mediaeval  baron  besieged  in  a  castle 
whose  walls  are  eighteen  feet  thick  and  whose 
turrets  drip  with  the  blood  of  desperate  de- 
fenders. 


VI.      A   BIT   OF   BOG. 


From  Cork  to  Bantry  is  an  easy  journey  by 
rail.  In  making  it  I  got  my  first  glimpse  of 
bog  lands,  with  their  oozy  soil,  their  long  black 
trenches  and  rows  of  turf  ready  for  the  peas- 
ants' hearth.  There  are  more  than  two  million 
acres  of  bogs  in  Ireland,  about  one-seventh  of 
the  total  acreage  of  the  country.  One  cannot 
travel  far,  therefore,  without  becoming  famil- 
iar with  their  general  features.  A  bog  is 
earth's  symbol  of  desolate  solitude.  It  is  one 
of  the  most  sombre  of  the  "myriad  forms" 
with  which  nature  holds  communion  with  the 
soul.  It  bears  an  aspect  of  repellent  cheer- 
lessness.  The  pall  of  decay  hangs  over  it- 
it  is  but  the  sepulchre  of  the  ancient  forest. 
Yet  out  of  this  charnel  house  comes  the  fuel 
for  the  cheery  fires  that  conquer  the  chill  of 
the  peasant's  cabin.  From  darkness  comes 
light,  and  from  death  springs  life  more  abun- 
dant. 

The  economic  possibilities  of  these  immense 
bogs  are  of  course  very  great.  They  are  in 
some  places  fifty  feet  deep.  The  average 
depth  of  the  trenches  is  fifteen  feet.     Here  are 


42  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

vast  coal  beds  in  actual  process  of  formation, 
there  being  less  difference  between  coal  and 
the  blacker  peat  at  the  bottom  of  the  trenches 
than  there  is  between  that  and  the  lighter  turf 
at  the  top.  So  I  was  informed  by  an  intelli- 
gent Irishman  familiar  with  peat  beds  and 
coal  deposits.  I  quote  him  in  preference  to 
the  books;  not  that  there  was  anything  new 
in  the  intelligence,  but  that  it  was  first  handed. 
One  cannot  tell  how  many  handed  may  be  the 
information   one  gets  from   a  book. 

The  turf  is  cut  with  a  sharp  spade-like  imple- 
ment into  pieces  about  brick  size  and  exposed 
to  dry.  It  is  then  gathered  into  some  con- 
venient shed  or  stacked  up  in  the  open  to  be 
used  at  convenience. 

On  a  certain  propitious  afternoon  up  in 
Mayo  County  my  brazen  little  camera  gath- 
ered upon  its  film  the  impress  of  a  fair  colleen 
and  her  shaggy  donkey  engaged  in  the  labor 
of  transportation.  It  was  a  menial  task  to 
be  sure,  but  there  was  something  of  idealism 
and  idyllic  simplicity  in  the  scene.  I  thought 
of  Kuth  following  the  gleaners  at  Bethlehem. 
Ah,  she  was  attractive  enough,  this  Irish  peas- 
ant girl, — attractive  enough  for  the  brush  of 
a  Raphael.     In  fact  the  loosely  flowing  shawl 


AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE.  43 

falling  back  from  the  abundant  chestnut  hair, 
the  well  rounded  face  with  even  features  and 
wistful  wondering  eyes,  give  just  a  hint  of  the 
Sistine  Madonna.  As  for  the  beast,  his  ex- 
pression was  that  of  one  at  peace  with  all  the 
world  and  with  all  the  worlds.  Upon  his 
back  were  two  huge  baskets  almost  as  large 
as  himself,  in  which  the  fuel  was  carried  from 
the  bog.  Often  the  more  prosaic  cart  is  used 
instead  of  the  baskets,  and  just  as  often  a  less 
romantic  person  than  the  fair  colleen  does 
the  driving.  That  was  the  Ireland  that  I 
"went  out  for  to  see"— the  "Ould  Ireland" 
of  bogs  and  donkeys  and  folks. 

Among  my  souvenirs  I  have  a  picture  post- 
card made  of  peat.  This  is  civilization's 
highest  compliment  to  the  bog.  I  was  in- 
formed, however,  that  these  cards  were  not 
popular  enough  to  warrant  their  continued 
manufacture.  Those  now  in  existence  may  be 
regarded  as  curiosities. 


VII.      GLOBIOUS    GLENGARIFF. 

The  Irish  coast  is  a  ring  of  bays  and  prom- 
ontories. Bantry  Bay  is  a  majestic  isle-dot- 
ted sweep  of  water  with  its  marginal  hills  torn 
into  a  succession  of  gullies.  At  the  head  of 
the  Bay  is  Glengariff,  "Bough  Glen/'  de- 
clared by  Lord  Macaulay  to  be  the  fairest  spot 
in  the  British  Isles.  High  praise  from  high 
authority.  Glengariff  and  its  environs  seemed 
to  me  to  be  a  composite  of  the  Maine  Woods, 
the  Catskill  Mountains  and  the  Thousand 
Islands.  Such  a  place  on  the  Atlantic  Coast 
of  the  United  States  would  soon  become  a 
Mecca  for  the  health  and  pleasure  seekers  of 
the  whole  continent.  Salmon  and  trout  fish- 
ing can  be  enjoyed  in  all  the  little  streams  that 
gurgle  through  the  mystic  glens,  and  the  Bay 
abounds  in  pollock,  bass,  hake,  mackerel,  and 
other  beauties  worth  the  catching.  The 
cormorant,  the  wild  duck  and  the  snipe  al- 
lure the  man  with  the  gun,  not  to  speak  of  the 
otters  and  seals  that  are  reported  to  inhabit  the 
island  shores  and  rock  caverns.  Nimrods  and 
Waaltons  can  there  find  sport  for  many  a  day. 
Less  murderous  pleasures,  however,  were  more 


AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE.  45 

consonant  with  the  briefness  of  my  visit  and 
the  conspicuous  gentleness  of  my  disposition — 
not  to  confound  gentleness  with  an  over  re- 
gard for  one's  personal  comfort  and  safety,  as 
some  mistakenly  do. 

A  sturdy  young  Glengariff  lad  was  engaged 
as  boatman  and  guide.     His  broad  shoulders, 
thick  curly  hair,  full  honest  face,  and  frank, 
confident,  yet  deferential,  manner  excited    in- 
terest.    I  interrogated.     I  discovered    in    him 
one  of  the     noble  race  of  McCarthy,  Mr.  Eu- 
gene McCarthy  if  you  please,  who  by  dividing 
his  time  between  his  farm  and  his  boat  is  able 
to  eke  out  something  like  an  existence.     But 
his  hopes  are  across  the  sea.     He  purposes  some 
day  to   become   an   American   citizen  with    a 
steady  job  and  a  pretty  little  surplus  in    the 
bank.     There  are  thousands  such  as  he  in  Ire- 
land,  whose  hearts   are   set  on  the  American 
paradise.     Entering    into    their     visions     they 
find  remunerative,  if  laborious,  employment  in 
this  great  land,  rear  their  children  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  freedom,  whose  sons  in  turn  pass 
on  to  the  colleges,  pulpits,  courts  and    council 
chambers  to     shape  the  policies  of  the  nation 
and    to     safeguard     its     welfare.     They    may 
mount,  some  of  them,  to  the  pinnacle  of  polit- 


46  AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE. 

ical  preferment,  for  of  such  were  Andrew 
Jackson  and  William  McKinley,  and  of  such 
also  were  Monroe,  Buchanan,  and  Arthur.  Ave 
Eugene  McCarthy !  There  's  plenty  of  room  in 
America  for  the  likes  of  you. 

The  "personally  conducted"  tour  around 
the  harbor  was  a  success,  Eugene  himself  fur- 
nishing much  of  the  "local  color."  He  took 
me  to  Cromwell's  Bridge,  now  only  a  mourn- 
ful stone  arch  hidden  in  the  trees  that  stretch 
their  ancient  branches  from  side  to  side  of  the 
little  river.  A  portion  of  the  bridge  was  long 
since  swept  away,  but  the  wonder  is  that  any 
of  it  remains,  for  the  whole  bridge  was  built 
in  a  miraculous  hurry — in  an  hour,  according 
to  the  veracious  Eugene  who  was  only  perpetu- 
ating veracious  tradition.  I  would  have 
marvelled  had  he  said  a  week.  The  builders 
worked  under  a  mighty  incentive.  Noble 
Cromwell  declared  he  would  oft*  with  their 
heads  if  they  exceeded  the  time  limit.  That 
was  only  Cromwell's  way  of  saying  "Please 
hurry."  "Cromwell  must  have  been  a  gentle- 
man of  decapitating  manners,"  I  remarked. 
"Sure  sor,  he  was  no  gentleman  at  all,  sor," 
said  Eugene.  "He'd  do  anything,  sor."  Eu- 
gene's "sors"  came  at  the  rate  of  about  forty 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  47 

per  second.  There  were  several  islands  to  be 
pointed  out,  and  the  old  fort,  and  the  Earl  of 
Bantry's  beautiful  home  facing  the  Bay,  and 
the  cascade,  a  crystal  veil  draping  the  mossy 
rocks  in  a  framework  of  holly  and  laurel  as 
lovely  as  any  fairy  haunted  dell  of  our  dear- 
est dreams.  Macaulay's  appraisal  of  the  glor- 
ies of  Glengariff  was  not  extravagant — at  least 
not  too  extravagant  to  fit  my  own  mood.  So 
delighted  was  I  that  I  did  not  want  to  believe 
that  there  could  be  any  fairer  spot  in  the  King- 
dom. 

The  village  of  Glengariff  is  small  and  not 
especially  interesting.  There  is,  however,  a 
very  laudable  work  being  carried  on  at  the 
lace  school  where  about  seventy  young  women 
are  becoming  experts  in  the  art.  The  man- 
ageress is  a  gracious,  yet  business-like  young 
lady,  whose  name  happened  to  be  identical 
with  my  own  patronymic,  "which."  said  she, 
' '  I  trust,  is  nothing  against  either  of  us. ' '  She 
exhibited  some  exquisite  pieces  of  Crochet  and 
of  Needlepoint,  Limerick  and  Carrickmacross 
laces.  The  making  of  these  laces  furnishes  re- 
fined employment  for  many  girls  who  other- 
wise would  be  doomed  to  drudgery.  It  is  a 
feature  of  the  great  modern    movement    that 


48  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

has  brought  new  hope  to  Old  Ireland.  A  re- 
juvenating process  is  well  under  way  through- 
out the  country.  It  is  unmistakably  genuine. 
It  is  artistic,  industrial  and  moral  in  spirit  de- 
pending not  primarily  on  parliamentary  poli- 
cies. Such  men  as  Sir  Horace  Plunkett,  by 
putting  the  emphasis  on  character,  are  laying 
the  axe  to  the  root  of  Ireland's  difficulties. 
The  story  of  such  remedial  agencies  as  the 
Recess  Committee,  the  Congested  Districts 
Board,  the  Irish  Agricultural  Organization 
Society,  the  County  Councils,  the  Land  Pur- 
chase Acts,  etc.,  is  one  of  the  most  encouraging 
of  modern  times,  albeit  its  discussion  is  too 
weighty  a  matter  for  the  present  narrative. 
The  fact  that  the  lace  school  at  Glengariff  is 
under  the  Congested  Districts  Board  illustrates 
something  of  the  method  of  the  Irish  indus- 
trial and  moral  advance  and  justifies  at  least  a 
passing  allusion  to  the  great  awakening,  out 
of  which  will  march  the  forces  that  are  to 
dominate  Irish  history  and  politics. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  evening  I  walked  out 
along  a  lonely  road  upon  the  jagged  side  of  a 
wild  ravine.  As  the  shadows  deepened  and 
the  cool  night  wind  murmured  a  weird  obli- 
gato  to  the  riotous  splashing  of   a  mountain 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  49 

stream  as  it  sported  unseen  among  the  rocks, 
a  vivid  sense  of  the  grandeur  of  the  scene  pos- 
sessed me.  No  human  being  was  in  sight,  none 
within  sound  of  my  voice  probably.  Alone, 
with  the  illimitable  glory  of  earth  and  sea  and 
sky !  Yet  not  alone  for  there  were  the  friendly 
stars,  and  the  friendly  trees,  and  the  friendly 
mountains,  and  better  than  all,  the  conscious- 
ness of  that  Supreme  Personality  always  in 
communication  with  persons.  Even  so,  He 
smiles  upon  us  through  all  shadows,  and 
loves  us  through  all  changes.  There  and  then 
I  realized,  as  never  before,  that  the  two  para- 
mount verities  through  all  the  Universe  are 
God  and  Love.  Thus  "Glorious  Glengariff" 
opened  its  heart  of  beauty  and  revealed  its 
sweetest  secret.  Now  can  I  join  with  one 
gifted  in  the  art  of  song: — 

* '  Glengariff ;   on  thy  shaded  shore, 

I've  wandered  when  the  sun  was  high, 
Have  seen  the  moonlight  showers  pour, 

Through  thy  umbrageous  canopy; 
Have  heard  thy  voice  of  music  give, 

Its  tones  of  sweetness  to  mine  ear, 
By  waterfalls  that  murmuring,  live 

To  flow  through  many  a  changing  year." 


VIII.      THE  SONG   A.T   TWILIGHT. 

"By  Killarney 's  lakes  and  fells, 

Emerald  Isles  and  winding  bays. 
Mountain  paths  and  woodland  dells 
Mem'ry  ever  fondly  strays****" 

The  voice  of  the  singer  was  full  of  that 
subtle  heart-reaching  pathos  that  suits  so 
well  the  old  familiar  song  of  Balfe's.  Pythag- 
oras taught  and  practised  the  medicament  of 
music,  and  Plato  considered  a  nation's  songs 
the  gauge  of  a  nation's  morals.  On  these 
ancient  and  accepted  principles,  the  composer 
of  Killarney,  though  he  had  never  written 
"The  Bohemian  Girl,"  deserves  the  gratitude 
of  his  countrymen.  It  was  the  evening  of  my 
arrival  at  Killarney.  There,  amid  the  glories 
so  feelingly  portrayed  by  the  poet,  I  listened 
to  the  singing  of  that  wondrous  melody.  It 
came  floating  from  the  white  throat  of  a  gifted 
young  Killarney  girl,  in  rich  mezzo  soprano 
tones.  Verily  it  seemed  as  though  the  hills 
had  actually  broken  forth  into  song. 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  51 

"  Bounteous  nature  loves  all  lands, 

Beauty  wanders  everywhere; 
Footprints  leaves  on  many  strands, 

But  her  home  is  surely  here. 
Angels  fold  their  wings  and  rest 

In  that  Eden  of  the  West, 
Beauty's  home,  Killarney, 

Ever  fair,  Killarney." 

The  journey  from  Glengariff  had  been  made 
by  coach,  an  exhilarating  ride  of  more  than 
forty  miles  on  smooth  roads  winding  around 
and  over  the  grizzled  mountains  of  Counties 
Cork  and  Kerry.  The  noonday  refreshment 
was  taken  at  Kenmare,  and  it  happened  to  be 
"Pair  Day"  at  Kenmare.  Fair  Day,  let  it  be 
understood,  is  an  honorable  institution  of  great 
local  importance.  The  first  token  of  excite- 
ment to  present  itself  to  me  was  the  spectacle 
of  a  family  of  eight  riding  into  town  in  a  little 
donkey  cart  built  for  one.  The  streets  were 
rendered  almost  impassable  by  the  herding  in 
them  of  animals  commonly  considered  lower 
than  man.  Every  farmer  within  ten  or  fifteen 
miles  around  had  brought  in  his  stock  to  be 
bartered  or  sold.  There  was  a  Noachian 
variety  of  cows,  calves,  pigs,  goats,  sheep, 
poultry, — everything  in  fact  that  was  alive  and 
marketable.  What  haggling  and  coaxing  and 
bargain  driving  and  interpositions,   and  slap- 


52  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

ping  of  fingers!  Thus  dramatically  does  the 
Celt  "crack  a  bargain."  A  very  large  man 
with  a  very  red  face  and  a  very  thick  mous- 
tache and  carrying  a  very  heavy  cane  was 
haggling  with  a  very  little  man  with  very 
sharp  eyes  and  very  thin  side  whiskers. 
"Show  me  three  fingers,"  said  the  big  fellow. 
He  gave  the  extended  fingers  a  tremendous 
slap,  exclaiming  "I'll  make  it  three  pound 
six!"  "I'll  not  do  it,"  said  the  little  fellow. 
There  was  a  magnificent  flourish  of  the  heavy 
cane,  and  the  possessor  thereof  turned  away 
with  a  noble  air  of  defiance.  He  was  called 
back,  however,  for  more  persuasion.  "I  knew 
I'd  make  ye  call  me,"  said  he,  with  a.  tantal- 
izing sneer.  I  left  him  the  center  of  an 
extremely  animated  group  of  Milesians.  The 
main  street  of  the  town,  along  which  I  was 
making  slow  progress,  was,  for  the  time  being, 
nothing  better  than  an  elongated  barn-yard. 
They  still  do  things  that  way  in  Ireland. 

But  Killarney!  Mecca  of  tourists,  theme 
of  poets,  paradise  of  artists!  Killarney,  at 
last !  Small  wonder  that  the  voice  of  the  fair 
singer  that  night  grew  richer  with  feeling  as 
she  proceeded: — 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  53 

"  Innisf alien 's  ruined  shrine 
May  suggest  a  passing  sigh, 
But  man's  faith  can  ne'er  decline 

Such  God's  wonders  floating  by***" 

Wonders!  God's  wonders  indeed.  Wonders  of 
lake  and  stream,  rock,  mountain,  forest  and 
foliage  interspersed  with  wrecked  memorials 
of  the  ancient  Faith. 

"Castle  Lough  and  Glena  Bay, 

Mountains  Tore  and  Eagle's  Nest, 
Still  at  Muckross  you  must  pray 

Though  the  monks  are  now  at  rest." 

Muckross  is  a  prayer — a  broken  yet  eloquent 
cry,  a  sob  out  of  the  centuries.  The  monks 
have  long  since  passed  to  their  rest,  yet 
enough  remains  of  their  buildings  to  show  that 
they  were  remarkably  beautiful,  embowered  in 
the  shade  of  kingly  trees  and  costumed  in 
glossy  ivy.  Outlines  of  choir,  transept  and 
nave,  can  still  be  traced.  Imagination  can 
reproduce  much  of  what  time  and  tyrant  have 
destroyed.  The  old  yew  tree  still  has  root  in 
the  square  around  which  runs  the  gloomy 
cloister  where  pious  devotees  once  loitered  and 
discussed  the  problems  of  their  order.  That 
was  long  ago,  a  century  and  more  before 
Elizabeth  sat  on  the  throne  of  the  Tudors  or 


54  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

ever  Shakespeare  had  filled  the  earth  with  the 
perfume  of  his  genius. 

Heart  throbs  were  in  the  notes : — 

"  Angels  wonder  not  that  man 
There  would  fain  prolong  life's  span, 
Beauty's  home,  Killarney 
Ever  fair,  Killarney." 

The  Gap  of  Dunloe  is  a  wild  ravine,  cleft, 
says  the  legend,  by  the  great  sword  of  Fenn 
MeCoul.  The  distance  from  Kate  Kearney's 
Cottage  at  the  entrance  of  the  Gap  to  Lord 
Brandon's  Cottage  at  the  head  of  the  Upper 
Lake  is  about  six  miles.  The  journey  is  usually 
made  on  horseback.  On  either  side  are  the 
mountains,  the  Tomies  and  the  Purple  Moun- 
tains on  the  left,  the  Macgillycuddy  Reeks  on 
the  right,  with  Carrantuohill  3414  feet  high. 
0,  but  it  was  a  glorious  ride  I  had  that  day! 
There  were  the  savage  glories  of  gorge,  crag 
and  bowlder;  the  overshadowing  heights  of 
the  mountains,  the  gurgle  and  splash  of  the 
tumbling  river,  the  interweaving  of  the 
heather  and  arbutus.  Mine  was  a  good  looking 
animal,  about  the  best  in  the  Gap,  I  thought. 
She  had  a  white  spot  on  her  forehead,  star- 
shaped,  so  I  dubbed  her  Venus,  after  the  god- 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  55 

dess  of  beauty  and  the  loveliest  of  the  planets. 
She  had  a  well-formed  neck,  luxuriant 
mane,  and  limbs  like  the  bronzes  of  St. 
Mark's.  A  level  stretch  here  and  there 
made  it  possible  to  show  her  speed, 
when  the  pounding  of  hoofs  upon  the  hard 
road  brought  the  echoes  from  the  crags, 
sounding  like  a  cavalry  troop  at  charge.  It  was 
splendid,  thrilling! 

"Purple  Mountain,"  gorgeous  in  color,  tow- 
ered like  a  king  in  robes  of  state.  Black  Lough, 
in  which  St.  Patrick  drowned  the  last  of  the 
Irish  serpents,  glittered  like  a  jewel  on  the 
royal  insignia.  At  length  the  summit  was 
reached,  and  I  could  look  down  upon  the 
Black  Valley,  and  the  Upper  Lake.  I  cannot 
describe  that  view.  I  am  sure  I  do  not  want 
to  try.  Moses  saw  nothing  so  grand  from 
Nebo's  top. 

"No  place  else  can  charm  the  eye 

With  such  bright  and  varied  tints, 
Every  rock  that  you  pass  by 

Verdure  broiders  or  besprints. 
Virgin  there  the   green  grass  grows, 

Every  morn  springs  natal  day, 
Bright  hued  berries  daff  the   snows, 

Smiling  winter's  frown  away. 
Angels  often  pausing  there, 


56  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

Doubt  if  Eden  were  more  fair. 
Beauty's  home,  Killarney, 
Ever  fair,  Killarney." 

It  is  true  not  only  of  the  heathen  lands  of 
which  Heber  wrote  in  his  immortal  Missionary 
Hymn  that  a  pleasing  prospect  often  contrasts 
itself  with  the  vileness  of  man.  Many  a  sad 
spectacle  will  be  seen  in  a  day  at  Killarney, 
unless  one  be  disposed  to  think  only  of  the 
humorous  side  of  the  situation.  A  white  haired 
woman,  gaunt  and  wrinkled,  her  bare  feet  and 
ankles  showing  beneath  her  ragged  skirt,  im- 
portuned me  to  buy  a  pair  of  heavy  woolen 
socks  of  her  own  knitting.  "It's  a  poor 
counthry,  sor, ' '  was  her  reply  to  the  suggestion 
that  she  needed  something  of  that  character 
for  her  own  use.  The  scores  of  women  scat- 
tered all  through  the  Gap  of  Dunloe,  selling 
illegally  distilled  whiskey,  poetically  called 
"mountain  dew"  and  "poteen,"  (it  is 
brewed  in  small  pots)  create  many  a 
laugh,  leave  many  a  painful  reflection.  They 
haunt  the  ravine  like  witches.  Like  an 
apparition  from  the  nether  regions,  a  shriveled 
Hecate  suddenly  appeared  in  the  path  and 
cried,  "Good  day,  sor,  and  good  luck,  sor,  and 
will  ye  be  takin'  a  drap  o'  the  poteen,  sor,  and 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  57 

if  ye  don't  want  to  drink  will  ye  be  after  lavin' 
the  footin'  anyway,  sor."  She  had  in  her  hand 
a  bottle  of  milk  and  a  small  glass,  and  hidden 
in  the  folds  of  her  shawl  the  bottle  of  "dew." 
For  six  pence  she  would  sell  a  glass  of  milk, 
or  a  "wee  drap"  of  the  whiskey,  or  I  might 
buy  the  milk  and  accept  the  whiskey  as  a  gift. 
It  is  a  nice  elastic  arrangement,  adjustable  to 
any  ordinary  conscience.  A  person  with  no 
thirst  to  assuage  may,  nevertheless,  find  op- 
portunity to  part  with  his  coin,  as  these 
creatures  are  as  willing  to  beg  as  to  trade. 
"It's  an  American  gintleman  ye  are,"  said 
one,  taking  hold  of  the  stirrup,  to  detain  me. 
"How  did  you  guess  that,"  said  I.  "Sure," 
said  she,  "the  American  gintlemen  are  so  nice 
and  kind  to  the  poor.  They  always  lave  us 
somethin'. "  Verily,  a  reputation  is  a  valuable 
asset  in  this  hungry  world.  It  may  be  funny, 
this  wayside  begging  and  whiskey  selling,  but 
in  the  Ireland  that  is  to  be,  the  redeemed,  the 
uplifted,  the  new  Ireland,  there  will  be  none 
of  it. 

The  boat  ride  across  the  lakes  to  the  landing 
at  Ross  Castle  opens  a  matchless  vision  of 
miraculous  beauty.  Every  stroke  of  the  oar 
produces   a  new  scene,   and   each   scene  is   a 


58  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

masterpiece  framed  in  gold.  Such  grace  of 
outline,  such  wealth  and  subtlety  of  color !  The 
Louvre  and  the  Uffizzi  have  their  priceless 
treasures,  but  Killarney  is  the  gallery  of  God. 
Who  but  the  Divine  Artist  could  do  such  tint- 
ing, who  but  the  Divine  Sculptor  could  fashion 
such  forms !  The  rare  Irish  imagination  has 
spun  the  gorgeous  gossamer  of  its  fancy  from 
shore  to  summit,  and  every  conceivable  spot  is 
identified  with  some  captivating  tale  of 
banshee,  devil  or  hero.  The  composite  effect 
is  one  of  ecstatic  enchantment.  The  Upper 
Lake  with  its  bordering  hills  and  island  jewels, 
the  Long  Range  connecting  with  the  Middle  or 
Muckross  Lake,  the  rapids,  the  Old  "Weir 
Bridge,  Dinish  Island,  Innisfallen  in  the  Lower 
Lake,  the  vine  embraced  walls  of  old  Eoss 
Castle,  the  red  deer  feeding  in  the  marge,  the 
cloud  ranks  maneuvering  along  the  sky  line, 
the  voices  of  the  boatmen,  the  almost  reverent 
quietness  of  the  passengers,  seem  now  but  +he 
features  of  a  never-to-be-forgotten  dream. 

Eagle's  Nest,  rising  nearly  a  thousand  foet 
from  the  water,  was  to  me  a  breathing  giant 
rather  than  a  soulless  mass  of  rock.  The 
eagle  building  his  eyrie  there  is  a  king  amid 
splendors     unapproached     in     any     court     of 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  59 

empire.  The  echo  is  astounding.  A  bugle 
blast  is  taken  up  and  passed  from  peak  to 
peak  with  remarkable  distinctness.  Its  last 
faint  note  in  the  far  distance  is  like  the  voice 
of  an  angel  calling  the  saints  to  Heaven.  The 
reverberating  of  these  musical  echoes  among 
Killarney's  lovely  hills  is  the  perfect  merging 
of  the  terrestrial  with  the  celestial. 

"  Music  there  for  Echo  dwells, 

Makes  each  sound   a  harmony; 
Many  voiced  the  chorus  swells 

Till  it  faints  in  ecstasy. 
With  the  charmful  tints  below 

Seems  the  Heaven  above  to  vie; 
All  rich  colors  that  we  know 

Tinge  the  cloud-wreath  in  that  sky 
Wings  of  angels  so  might  shine, 

Glancing  back  swift  light  divine. 
Beauty's  home,  Killarney! 

Ever  fair,  Killarney!" 

It  was  my  pleasure  to  meet  at  Killarney  in 
the  beatiful  grounds  of  the  Lake  Hotel  an 
interesting  character  in  the  person  of  one 
" Jotter,"  an  artist  in  the  employ  of  the  Tuck 
Company.  I  watched  him  at  his  work  for  a 
time  and  saw  him  with  loving  hand  quicken 
the  canvas  with  the  hues  of  nature,  comment- 
ing  pleasantly    the    while   upon    the    delicate 


60  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

shades  of  color  lurking  on  hill  and  cloud.  To 
the  eye  of  the  man  of  training  and  talent  the 
scene  was  incomparable.  He  declared  his 
belief  that  the  angels  do  actually  fold  their 
wings  and  rest  at  Killarney.  Were  I  an  angel 
I  would  ask  no  sweeter  ecstasy  of  joy. 


IX.      LIMEEICK  ON  THE  SHANNON. 

Among  the  oft  recurring  memories  of  dear 
old  college  days,  the  dearer  the  further  they 
recede,  are  the  strains  of  that  boisterous  song 
celebrating  the  valor  of  a  pugnacious  Hiber- 
nian, who  has  much  to  say  concerning  the  tail 
of  his  coat,  and  wherein  are  the  lines : — 

1 '  In  the  A.  M.  we  met  at  Killarney, 
The  Shannon  we  crossed  in  a  boat." 

"When  I  came  to  cross  the  Shannon  myself  I 
had  a  sense  of  acquaintanceship  for  which,  I 
suppose,  the  uproarious  song  was  responsible. 

The  Shannon  is  the  Irish  Amazon.  In  fact  it 
is  the  largest  river  in  the  British  Isles.  Its 
sources  are  far  to  northward,  and  in  places  it 
is  very  narrow  and  quite  unnavigable.  Again 
it  widens  out  into  lake  dimensions,  and  these 
lakes  occupy  no  mean  place  among  the  pic- 
turesque charms  of  the  country.  Finally  the 
stream  pours  its  great  flood  into  the  ocean 
through  a  harbor  gateway  seven  miles  in 
width. 

My  first  glimpse  of  the  Shannon  was  obtained 
from  the  quays  and  bridges  of  old  Limerick. 


62  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

The  city  occupies  both  sides  of  the  river,  and 
an  island  between.  It  is  called  the  "City  of 
the  Violated  Treaty."  Thereby  hangs  a  tale, 
an  oft-told  tale,  a  tale  to  stir  the  blood  of  the 
honor  loving  in  all  lands.  Close  by  the 
Thomond  Bridge,  and  elevated  on  a  granite 
pedestal  may  be  seen  a  rough  stone,  called  the 
Treaty  Stone.  Around  that  stone  the  thrilling 
story  swings,  for  upon  it  a  famous  document 
was  signed  more  than  two  hundred  years  ago. 
The  situation  was  rather  interesting,  as  Mark 
Twain  might  say.  The  year  was  1691.  Prot- 
estant William  and  Catholic  James  had  been 
struggling  for  the  mastery.  Limerick  was 
then,  next  to  Dublin,  the  most  important  city 
in  Ireland.  In  August  of  the  previous  year 
King  William  had  led  his  army  against  it,  had 
battered  a  breach  in  the  strong  wall,  and  had 
sent  his  men  through  it  to  fight  for  hours 
within  the  city  in  as  daring  and  stubborn 
combat  as  heroes  can  wage  against  heroes. 
They  were  finally  driven  back,  and  Limerick, 
with  broken  walls  and  bloody  streets,  still 
flung  defiance  at  the  disappointed  King.  He 
soon  returned  to  England,  leaving  his  ablest 
generals  in  command.  After  Athlone,  Sligo 
and  Galway  had  been  taken,  the  second  siege 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  63 

of  Limerick  began.  The  bombardment  con- 
tinued until  there  was  hardly  enough  left  of 
the  city  to  fight  over.  The  combatants  on  both 
sides  were  exhausted.  The  Treaty  of  Limerick 
was  signed  on  the  third  day  of  October.  It 
was  an  honorable  treaty,  and  a  fair  one.  It 
guaranteed  religious  liberty  and  restoration  of 
privileges  to  Catholics.  It  permitted  the  sol- 
diers of  the  garrison  to  join  the  English  army, 
or  to  leave  the  country  if  they  preferred.  The 
great  name  of  Ginkel,  commander  of  the 
English,  went  down  on  that  treaty;  so  did  the 
greater  name  of  Sarsfield,  defender  of  Lim- 
erick. It  was  a  righteous  treaty.  King 
William  gladly  ratified  it.  It  signalized  the 
close  of  the  Jacobite  wars  in  Ireland. 

Just  one  year  and  three  days  after  the 
Treaty  Stone  had  thus  been  consecrated,  Par- 
liament met  at  Dublin,  and  after  the  manner 
of  parliaments  proceeded  to  nullify  the  terms 
of  the  treaty  by  passing  laws  directly  opposed 
thereto.  Such  is  history  as  the  Irishman  reads 
it,  and  so  much  at  least  must  be  recalled  on  a 
visit  to  Limerick.  I  gazed  long  and  hard  at 
that  monument  to  perfidy  and  wondered  if  its 
language  was  understood  by  the  jolly  lads 
playing  at  its  base. 


64  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

Across  the  river  I  could  see  the  rounded 
wall  of  old  King  John's  Castle,  whose  masonry- 
antedates  Runnymede.  It  is  another  object 
lesson.  It  has  survived  shock  upon  shock,  has 
been  defended  by  many  generations  of  fighting 
men,  has  sheltered  the  soldiers  of  Plantaganet, 
Tudor,  Stuart,  and  Hanoverian  monarchs;  and 
what  tyrant  John  builded,  Edward  still  em- 
ploys to  barrack  his  garrison.  Even  then,  at 
the  time  of  the  building  of  the  Castle,  Limerick 
was  an  old  city,  older  than  New  York  now  is. 
Antiquity  is  one  of  its  charms.  Yet  its  main 
thoroughfare,  George  Street,  prides  itself  on 
its  modern  aspect,  with  its  good  hotels,  large 
stores  and  throngs  of  eager  shoppers.  The 
magnificent  quays  and  docks  show  that  the 
natural  advantages  of  the  noble  old  river  are 
thoroughly  appreciated. 

In  addition  to  its  lace,  Limerick  is  boastful 
of  its  three  b's — bacon,  butter  and  beauty. 
The  last  mentioned  applies  of  course  to  human 
beings  of  the  feminine  gender.  The  guide 
books  boldly  challenge  the  visitor  to  observe 
the  loveliness  of  the  Limerick  ladies,  and  who 
could  be  so  ungallant  as  to  fail  to  perceive  it? 

Across  the  Sarsfield  Bridge,  near  one  end  of 
which   stands  a  statue   of  Lord  Fitzgibbon — 


AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE.  65 

one  of  the  heroes  of  Balaclava,  flows  a  stream 
of  humanity  almost  as  steady  as  the  current 
that  runs  under  its  five  arches.  Having  spent 
some  hours  in  visiting  various  parts  of  the 
city,  and  having  seen  its  most  interesting 
streets,  buildings  and  monuments,  I  gave 
myself  the  luxury  of  about  twenty  minutes' 
rest  and  observation  upon  the  bridge.  Loafing 
comes  easy  to  some  mortals.  There  were  a  few 
masters  in  the  art  leaning  against  the  open  bal- 
ustrade opposite.  Evidently  I  was  as  interest- 
ing to  them  as  they  were  to  me.  Loafing  is  the 
same  in  all  languages.  The  moving  throng 
was  a  fascinating  pageant.  There  were  jaunty 
nurses  with  prettily  dressed  children  in 
charge,  and  there  were  children  ragged  and 
nurseless,  all  unconscious  of  their  disadvan- 
tage. There  were  old  women  in  soiled  shawls, 
queer  and  quaking,  and  there  were  handsome 
women  in  elegant  equipages.  There  were  men 
robust  and  alert,  and  there  were  men  wizened 
and  dull  eyed.  Pedestrians  strolled  or  hurried, 
according  to  purpose  or  whim,  equestrians  sat 
proudly  on  spirited  mounts,  teamsters  urged  on 
their  indifferent  horses,  and  jarveys  flourished 
their  whips  and  solicited  patronage.  It  was 
the  hour  for  the  evening  delivery  of  milk,  and 


66  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

donkey  carts  laden  with  pear  shaped  cans  were 
being  driven  about  by  girls  and  women,  for 
the  Limerick  milkman  is  not  a  man.  There  at 
the  bridge  I  saw  the  life  of  Limerick  in  cameo. 
The  scene  remains  clear  cut  in  memory,  a  fre- 
quent reminder  of  the  pleasure  afforded  by  a 
visit  to  the  royal  city  of  the  old  Munster  kings, 
the  "City  of  the  Violated  Treaty." 


X.      A   BOTAL  EIVEB. 


From  the  cities  and  towns,  farms  and  facto- 
ries of  the  West  of  Ireland  may  be  gathered  a 
harvest  of  impressions  impossible  to  those  who 
confine  themselves  to  the  more  familiar  scenes 
of  Killarney,  Belfast,  and  Dublin.  Herein  is 
travel  so  far  superior  to  reading  as  a  source  of 
information,  especially  where  through  the 
smoke  of  controversy  the  truth  is  rarely  seen ; 
the  Celt  who  writes  his  diatribes  with 
the  ink  of  anathema  proves  little  but 
that  his  veins  are  full  of  boiling  blood.  The 
Britisher  is  entitled  to  his  bias.  To  visit  the 
scenes  and  to  converse  with  the  actors,  con- 
cerning which  and  concerning  whom  so  many 
conflicting  judgments  are  delivered,  enables 
one  to  shape  his  own  opinions  to  something 
like  distinctness.  So  I  found  it,  especially 
during  the  pilgrimage  from  Limerick  to  Sligo. 

To  Killaloe  on  the  Shannon  is  a  pleasant 
hour's  journey  by  rail.  The  town  is  small,  with 
a  population  of  about  900,  but  it  is  very  large 
in  the  measure  of  its  environal  beauty  and  its 
natural  advantages  of  location.  The  moun- 
tains,  great   and   green,   arise   around  it,   the 


68  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

river  rushes  before  it,  and  Lough  Derg 
stretches  away  to  the  northward.  An  attrac- 
tive hotel,  most  pleasantly  situated  and  sur- 
rounded by  artistically  kept  grounds  and 
gardens,  assures  the  comfort  of  guests.  Of  the 
quiet  yet  lavish  loveliness  of  the  place  too  much 
can  hardly  be  said  in  way  of  praise.  It  has  its 
industries  and  its  antiquities,  a  venerable 
cathedral,  and  the  traditional  site  of  a  famous 
palace  of  Brian  Boru.  Its  recreative  advan- 
tages are  numerous.  A  tired  man,  a  man 
wearied  of  the  city's  din,  or  determined  on  the 
sports  of  forest  and  stream  would  find  delight 
at  Killaloe.  Darkness  gathers  very  slowly  in 
this  latitude,  the  twilight  lingering  as  though 
loath  to  relinquish  the  glorious  landscape.  Be- 
ing fond  of  evening  walks  and  starry 
skies,  I  indulged  myself  for  a  time  in 
that  gentle  form  of  excitement.  The  air 
was  cool  and  vocal  with  pleasing  sounds 
— the  splash  of  water,  the  sigh  of  wind, 
the  silvery  call  of  birds  from  the  wood- 
land, the  echo  of  laughter  and  song  from 
the  village.  Ursa  Major  spread  out  his  huge 
form  overhead,  and  great  Arcturus  was  swing- 
ing his  blazing  light  low  over  the  Western 
hills.     Cygnus,  once  a  swan,  now  a  cross  of 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  69 

diamonds  brooched  upon  the  Milky  Way,  shone 
like  the  sign  of  Constantine.  The  heavenly 
host  swung  on  in  noiseless  march,  filling  the 
night  with  the  glory  of  their  pageantry. 
"Ah!"  thought  I,  "The  Irishman  is  a  lucky 
lad  after  all.  From  the  greenest  sod  on  earth 
he  can  look  up  to  the  brightest  stars  of  heaven, 
while  his  ears  are  filled  with  nature's  sweetest 
orchestrations.  He  is  a  lucky  lad  indeed." 
That  evening  at  Killaloe  was  keyed  with  inspi- 
rations and  crowded  with  hallelujahs.  The 
day  following  was  to  be  one  of  rapturous 
amens. 

"Queen  of  the  Irish  Lakes"  is  the  proud 
title  borne  by  Lough  Derg.  Not  so  large  as 
Lough  Neagh  in  the  North  East,  and  not  so 
famous  as  Killarney  in  the  South  West,  it  is 
large  enough  and  lovely  enough  to  merit 
queenly  honors.  There  are  more  than  a  hun- 
dred lakes  in  Ireland.  To  be  queen  among 
them  is  high  distinction.  It  lies  along  the 
course  of  the  Shannon  for  twenty-five  miles, 
its  extended  banks  forming  a  vast  reservoir  in 
which  is  gathered  an  immense  volume  of  water. 

The  steamer  started  at  8  a.m.  to  carry  its 
few  passengers  across  the  lake  and  on  up  the 
river  as  far  as  Banagher.    I  was  soon  conscious 


70  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

of  the  impress  of  wondrously  impressive  con- 
ditions. The  Emerald  hills  of  Clare,  Tipperary, 
and  Galway  stood  around  like  Maids  of  Honor 
to  the  Queen.  Bordered  with  rich  and  varied 
foliage,  the  far  reaching  Lough  seemed  all  the 
more  majestic  beneath  heavy  skies.  Storm 
clouds,  like  black  steeds  in  rampage,  chased 
across  the  heavens  and  down  over  the  Galway 
horizon,  followed  by  lighter  formations 
through  which  the  sun  sifted  his  fire,  streaking 
clouds,  hills  and  lake  with  lines  of  glowing 
color.  And  so  it  continued  through  the  morn- 
ing, a  soul  moving  vision  in  black,  white, 
green  and  gold, — a  scenic  rhapsody  of  rare 
magnificence.  How  futile  are  the  or- 
dinary figures  of  speech  as  interpreta- 
tions of  nature's  grander  moods!  I  ventured 
as  much  in  a  casual  remark  to  a  stranger 
standing  near  by,  and  he  readily  agreed.  It 
proved  to  be  the  opening  of  a  conversation 
that  lasted  until  he  left  the  steamer  at 
Portumna.  There  are  companionable  fellows 
the  world  around.  None  more  so  than  the  in- 
telligent Irishman. 

He  was  a  Dublin  man.  In  dress,  speech, 
and  manners  he  was  a  typical  Dublin  man, 
sufficient  commendation  for  those  who  know 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  71 

Dublin.    He  was  of  medium  height,  with  light 
brown  hair,  moustache  of  a  still  lighter  shade, 
cheeks  aglow  with  rich  color,  eyes  large  and 
blue  and  kindly.     A  gentleman  he  was  every 
inch  of  him.    His  straw  hat  was  of  the  latest 
Dublin  fashion,   and  the  inevitable  rain  coat 
fitted  unusually  well  about  his  athletic  figure. 
He  made  constant  use  of  a  binocular  field  glass, 
which    he    generously    shared    with    me    and 
which    worked    miracles    upon    the    Elysian 
scenes  through  which  we  were  passing.     But 
not    for   these   things,    primarily,    is   he    now 
remembered.     I  soon  made  the  discovery  that 
my  friend  was  one  of  the  agents  representing 
the    Congested    Districts    Board,    even    then 
travelling  in  the  prosecution  of  his  duties  in 
connection  with  the  most  daring  of  all  cam- 
paigns for  the   amelioration  of  the  country's 
woes  and  wrongs.    So  he  was  more  to  me  than 
a  typical  Dublinite,  more  than   an  agreeable 
companion  for  a  few  hours'  journey.     In  his 
own  delightful  person  he   seemed  to  sum  up 
the  history  of  many  decades  and  to  prophesy 
the  triumph  of  justice  in  the  new  era.     For 
the  nonce  he  personified  Ireland's  long  battle 
with  poverty. 

Three-fourths  of  the  population  of  Ireland 


72  AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE. 

are  dependent  upon  agriculture.  Given  the 
proper  incentive,  adequate  equipment  and 
education,  the  Irish  farmer  might  have  led  a 
joyous  existence,  conscious  at  least  of  his  own 
independence.  An  iniquitous  system  of  land 
ownership  robbed  him  of  the  incentive. 
Poverty  and  ignorance  interacting  one  upon 
the  other,  forced  upon  him  a  drudgery  that 
meant  the  death  of  hope.  He  has  been  a  pitiful 
figure  among  earth  toilers.  He  hates  the  gov- 
ernment under  which  he  is  compelled  to  live. 
A  tide  of  emigration  carried  away  his  best 
friends,  reducing  the  population  from  eight  to 
four  millions  in  a  few  years.  Habits  of  indo- 
lence, intemperance,  and  contentiousness  deep- 
ened the  pathos  of  his  plight.  His  wrongs  and 
his  wrongdoings,  his  sorrows  and  his  sins  have 
complicated  a  problem  in  the  solution  of  which 
the  whole  world  is  interested.  Back  of  it  all 
there  is  a  long,  long  story  which  must  be  read 
with  judicial  mind,  the  probability  being 
strong  that  the  more  familiar  the  reader  be- 
comes with  the  details  of  the  story,  the  less 
inclined  he  will  be  toward  rendering  a  final 
verdict. 

As  the  little  steamer  chugged  along  merrily 
tossing  the  water  from  its  bow  and  leaving  a 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 


73 


white   swell   astern,   innumerable  hills  poking 
into  the  landscape  dotted  with  farms  and  occa- 
sionally  surmounted   by   ruins,   certainly  pic- 
turesque and  presumably  historic,  we  discussed 
the     ''Irish     Problem ' '—the  Irishman  and  I. 
The  discussion  took  the  form  of  questions  and 
answers,  he  furnishing  the  answers.     He  was, 
I  think,  thoroughly  informed,  quite  unbiased, 
and    unusually    frank.       He     was     courteous 
enough  also  to  show  no  sign  of  weariness  under 
the  inquisition,  in  fact  declared  that  he  enjoyed 
it.     He  repudiated  all  claims  to  philanthropy, 
saying  that  while  it  was  true  that  he  was  en- 
gaged   in    carrying    out    the    provisions     of 
philanthropic  legislation,  he  was  well  paid  for 
his  work,   and  deserved  no  more  praise  than 
those  engaged  in  other  lines  of  business.     It 
was  for  this  man,   however,   rather  than  for 
Members  of  Parliament  to  apply  parliamentary 
decisions    directly    to    the    peasant    and    his 
family,  and  there  would  be  abundant  oppor- 
tunity for  tact,  kindliness,  and  diplomatic  dis- 
crimination  on   his   part.       He    related   some 
incidents  showing  the  need  of  these  attributes. 
In  selecting  those  to  whom  the  opportunity  of 
going  to  the  larger  and  better  farms  should 
first  be  offered,  the  Scriptural  rule,  "Unto  him 


74  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

that  hath  shall  be  given"  is  applied;  "for," 
said  my  worthy  friend,  "the  man  who  best 
succeeds  under  disadvantages  is  most  deserv- 
ing of  the  better  chance."  This  bit  of  sound 
philosophy  and  practical  wisdom  is  capable  of 
a  very  wide  application  to  present  day  condi- 
tions in  the  Emerald  Isle. 

Portumna  is  a  small  agricultural  center  in 
Galway  County  near  the  northern  end  of  the 
lake.  My  affable  companion  bade  me  good  bye 
at  the  landing,  swung  lightly  to  the  seat  of  a 
jaunting  car  and  was  soon  lost  to  view  on  the 
long  road  that  leads  into  the  town.  I  was  left 
to  the  quiet  contemplation  of  the  Shannon 
scenery  and  to  certain  ruminations  upon  a 
series  of  events  that  seem  about  to  culminate 
in  a  new  baptism  of  happiness  for  a  long 
unhappy  land. 

On  the  22nd  day  of  January,  1801,  the  "Act 
of  Union"  having  been  signed  by  King  George 
III.  on  the  first  day  of  the  preceding  August, 
the  "combined"  parliament  met  at  London. 
The  Dublin  parliament  had  suicided  under 
what  pressure  and  provocation  the  purer 
politics  of  today  can  hardly  conceive.  Since 
that  time,  legislation  for  Ireland  has  emanated 
from  Westminster.    The  century  opened  under 


AROUND     THE      EMERALD      ISLE.  75 

most  disheartening  circumstances.  Kobert  Em- 
met, young  and  ardent,  blundered  into  an  in- 
surrection, and  the  executioner  terminated  his 
career.  The  country  writhed  in  a  fever  of 
discontent  and  despair.  The  contortions  were 
due  to  political  and  economic,  racial  and 
religious  difficulties.  Gaunt  poverty  stalked 
through  the  land  and  breathed  misery 
and  death  through  the  green  valleys. 
In  1838,  poor  houses  were  provided  for 
the  destitute.  The  act  authorizing  them 
was  the  result  of  investigations  carried  on  by  a 
royal  commission.  The  commission  reported 
frightful  conditions.  More  than  two  million 
people  were  in  extreme  want,  living  in  miser- 
able hovels,  sleeping  on  straw  or  on  the  hard 
earth.  A  meal  of  dried  potatoes  or  wild  herbs 
once  a  day  was  the  usual  portion.  Many  a 
family  was  saved  from  utter  extinction  by  the 
Poor  House.  In  that  same  year  Father  Mathew 
began  his  heroic  crusade  against  drunkenness, 
one  of  the  contributing  causes  of  wretchedness 
everywhere.  But  poor  houses  and  pledge 
signing  campaigns  were  no  sufficient  remedy 
for  the  foul  conditions,  nor  could  they  ward  off 
the  agonies  yet  to  come.  They  came,  those 
indescribable  agonies  of  the  famine  of  "Black 


76  AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE. 

Forty-seven."  The  crops  failed  utterly  and 
the  peasants  died  by  hundreds  and  thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands  until  a  quarter  of  the 
population  had  perished.  Terrible !  No  other 
European  country  has  ever  received  such  a 
scourging.  Woe  upon  woe,  wound  after 
wound,  sorrow  within  sorrow  and  a  multipli- 
cation of  sorrows.  0,  Isle  of  Destiny,  was  it 
for  this  that  the  bold  Milesians  sought  the 
slopes  of  thy  green  hills,  thy  brimming  lakes, 
thy  ravishing  rivers? 

Ireland  bowed  and  bleeding,  yet  brave,  won 
the  world's  pity.  The  consciences  of  legis- 
lators were  awakened.  Men  in  power  of  ex- 
alted position  championed  the  cause  of  the 
afflicted.  Bright  and  Gladstone  were  both 
eloquent,  good,  and  compassionate.  Yet  the 
way  to  the  light  was  through  a  jungle  of 
experimental  legislation.  By  the  repeal  of 
Corn  Laws  people  could  get  bread  at  lower 
cost,  but  were  eventually  placed  at  a  disadvan- 
tage in  trade  competition.  Bankrupted  land- 
lords sold  their  property  under  the  Encum- 
bered Estates  Act  of  1849,  but  voracious  spec- 
ulators bought  up  the  estates  and  the  tenants' 
trials  were  heavier  than  before.  The  agitation 
known    as    "Ribbonism"    followed    with    the 


AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE.  77 

usual  incidents  of  depredation  and  murder. 
The  Tenants'  League  of  1850  was  of  little 
consequence.  The  Fenian  excitement  of  the 
next  decade  stirred  England  to  a  keener  sense 
of  the  urgency  of  the  situation.  The  Prot- 
estant Episcopal  Church  was  disestablished  in 
Ireland  in  1869,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
government  assumed  the  right  to  purchase  the 
estate  of  an  embarrassed  landlord  and  to  sell 
it  to  tenants  on  easy  terms.  Here  we  behold 
the  gleaming  of  a  plan  and  a  principle  of  in- 
calculable value  to  Ireland.  More  than  six 
thousand  tenants  became  land  owners  under 
that  act.  Thus,  after  many  centuries,  the  land 
began  to  pass  back  into  the  possession  of  the 
people,  as  it  had  been  in  the  time  prior  to  the 
Norman  rule.  Then  followed  the  days  of  the 
fame  of  Michael  Davitt  and  Charles  Stewart 
Parnell,  and  the  Land  League  of  1879,  and 
the  Gladstone  Land  Bill  of  1881,  granting  the 
right  of  Fair  Rent,  Fixed  Hold,  and  Free  Sale, 
for  which  the  Land  League  had  contended.  A 
brilliant  dawn  arose  in  the  Land  Pur- 
chase Act  of  1885,  when  Parliament  put 
$25,000,000  at  the  disposal  of  Irish  tenants  for 
the  purchase  of  farms.  The  black  night  had 
passed,  the  sun  was  well  up  over  the  horizon. 


78  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

Another  grant  was  voted  in  1888.  Three  years 
later  Balfour  secured  $170,000,000  for  the  same 
purpose.  This  was  legislation  magnffique.  The 
Government  had  acquired  the  habit.  Special 
attention  was  given  to  this  backward 
Western  section  with  its  congested  dis- 
tricts and  poor  farms.  County  Councils 
were  established  in  1898,  through  which 
a  considerable  measure  of  self  govern- 
ment is  now  in  force.  The  Nineteenth  Century 
closed  in  a  blaze  of  new  life  for  the  "Old  Sod." 
In  the  Wyndham  Land  Act  of  1903  we  behold 
the  reform  program  in  full  swing.  The  Hiber- 
nian hates  the  Government  and  will  continue  to 
hate,  thanking  God  for  the  privilege,  but 
there  will  be  less  reason  for  it  in  the  future 
than  there  has  been  in  the  past.  After  reading 
' '  The  Making  of  Ireland  and  Its  Undoing, ' '  by 
Alice  Stopford  Greene,  one  should  turn  to 
"Ireland  in  the  New  Century,"  by  Sir  Horace 
Plunkett. 

Northward  from  the  Lough,  the  Shannon  is 
a  narrow  stream  running  through  the  meadow 
lands  of  Galway.  In  the  rushing  and  receding 
waters  of  the  steamer's  wake  the  fringing 
reeds  kept  bowing  like  so  many  Hindus 
salaaming  to  the  Maharajah.    A  delicious  odor 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  79 

filled  the  air.  Never  had  I  inhaled  such  sweet- 
ness. It  was  a  delicate  yet  decided  aroma 
extracted  from  the  rich  meadows  and  wafted 
about  by  the  wizard  breezes  for  the  delecta- 
tion of  sensitive  noses.  I  took  deep  draughts 
of  it  into  my  lungs  as  a  medicament  more 
precious  than  apothecaries'  compounds.  Also, 
I  recalled  other  odors  by  way  of  contrast,  and 
am  willing  to  make  affidavit  that  Ireland  can 
furnish  both  extremes.  Finally,  with  the  fra- 
grance of  the  Galway  meadows  still  lingering 
upon  our  senses,  we  swung  under  the  stone 
bridge  at  Banagher  and  the  steamer  was  made 
fast  to  the  landing. 

One  long  gently  winding  street  stretching 
away  from  the  river  to  the  little  Protestant 
church  on  the  hill,  good  macadam  roadway, 
cobble-stone  sidewalks,  buildings  one  and  two 
stories  high,  plastered  and  whitewashed,  some 
with  old  thatched  roofs  and  some  with  new 
slate  roofs;  dingy  stores  mostly  of  the  " spirit" 
variety;  a  prevailing  primitiveness,  dashed 
here  and  there  with  the  colors  of  the  modern 
post-card — such  is  Banagher  to  the  strolling 
stranger.  I  believe  there  is  a  distillery  at 
Banagher,  another  evidence  of  the  ubiquity  of 
evil. 


80  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

The  bridge  is  a  series  of  arches,  plain  but 
solid,  the  legatee  of  the  honor  bequeathed  by 
the  old  one  built  four  hundred  years  ago. 
There  are  ancient  barracks  down  by  the  river. 
I  know  not  how  ancient  they  may  be.  Hunting 
up  dates  or  guessing  at  them  grows  wearisome 
in  a  country  crowded  with  antiquities. 

Banagher  is  the  terminus  for  Shannon 
steamers,  and  also  for  a  branch  line  of  the 
Great  Southern  and  Western  Railway.  Thence 
my  route  lay  through  Ferbane  to  Clara  and 
Athlone. 


XI.      CLAEA    AND    ATHLONE. 

The  population  of  Clara  is  given  as  1,111. 
It  is  a  number  one  town,  therefore,  in  at  least 
four  respects.  It  has  a  large  jute  mill,  I  re- 
member, and  I  had  a  most  interesting  talk 
with  its  superintendent.  He  was  Scotch  and 
Protestant  and  had  some  interesting  things  to 
say  about  the  town  and  its  people.  There  are 
some  beautiful  estates  in  the  vicinity.  I  was 
attracted  by  the  groups  of  people  standing 
near  the  entrance  of  the  Catholic  church 
and  by  the  numbers  constantly  passing  in  and 
out.  I  joined  the  line  of  ingression.  The  occa- 
sion proved  to  be  a  gathering  of  school  chil- 
dren for  the  awarding  of  prizes.  There  must 
have  been  four  or  five  hundred  boys  and  girls 
filling  up  the  entire  nave  of  the  church,  while 
proud  parents  and  interested  friends  crowded 
the  side  aisles  and  transept.  The  cildren  were 
well  dressed  and  wore  their  sashes  and  badges 
with  evident  pride.  It  was  as  clean  and  in- 
telligent a  company  as  we  are  accustomed  to 
see  in  our  public  schools.  As  for  the  adults, 
there  was  a  difference.  The  majority  seemed 
poorly  dressed  and  many  were  disheveled  and 


82  AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE. 

dirty.  They  certainly  were  no  tidier  than  our 
poorer  tenement  dwellers  are  apt  to  be.  The 
day  was  rather  muggy,  and  the  atmosphere  in 
the  church  was  decidedly  offensive.  It  was  with 
some  difficulty  and  with  considerable  discom- 
fort that  I  reached  a  point  of  vantage,  both 
for  seeing  and  hearing.  There  stood  the 
Bishop,  properly  rotund  of  figure,  attired  in 
elegant  Episcopal  raiment,  with  mitre  and 
crozier,  addressing  as  eager  an  audience  as  was 
ever  hushed  in  the  presence  of  ecclesiastical 
dignity.  His  language  was  plain,  his  counsel 
direct  and  sound.  Then  there  was  the  reading 
of  a  list  of  names,  and  in  response  to  each  the 
child  designated  came  forward,  knelt  before 
the  Bishop,  kissed  his  ring,  and  received  from 
his  hand  a  token,  usually  a  book  or  gruesome 
picture  of  the  tortured  Savior.  The  full  signifi- 
cance of  the  ceremony  I  could  not  compre- 
hend, but  that  scene  has  arisen  in  memory 
many  many  times,  always  with  an  ac- 
companiment of  interrogation  points.  What 
may  have  been  the  impression  made 
upon  those  plastic  minds?  How  strong 
a  factor  will  that  impression  be  in  the 
process  of  the  unfolding  of  character?  Is 
there  a  better  wav  to  mold  the  lives  of  Erin's 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  83 

coming  citizens?  Do  such  influences  in  child- 
hood account  for  the  Irishman's  unquestioned 
devotion  to  his  religion?  Can  an  educational 
system  be  over-charged  with  religion?  Is  there 
any  relevance  in  the  observation  of  a  certain 
bold  and  impious  American  to  the  effect  that 
Ireland  has  more  rogues  in  the  Rogues'  Gallery 
and  more  saints  in  the  Saints'  Calendar  than 
any  other  country  on  the  planet? 

Sectarianism  is  still  a  live  wire  in  Ireland. 
But  recently  the  Lower  House  of  Parliament 
passed  Mr.  Redmond's  bill  seeking  to  remove 
all  disabilities  from  Catholics  and  so  to  alter 
the  King's  Oath  as  to  rid  it  of  the  obnoxious 
allusion  to  Catholicism.  The  Premier  favored 
the  bill.  There  is  the  usual  ' '  view  with  alarm ' ' 
attitude  on  the  part  of  many  Protestants.  Full 
forty  years  have  passed  since  the  disestablish- 
ment of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church  in 
Ireland.  As  there  are  but  three  counties 
having  more  Protestants  than  Catholics  the 
term  "priest  ridden"  is  still  applicable,  yet 
there  is  no  doubt  that  in  many  cases  the  priests 
ride  well  and  for  the  good  of  the  ridden. 
Religious  prejudice  is  still  carried  to  extremes 
utterly  unknown  in  America.  I  was  strongly 
urged  in  one  place  not  to  patronize  a  certain 


84  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

hotel  because,  even  though  it  was  the  best  hotel 
in  the  city,  it  was  owned  by  a  Catholic.  I 
rested  that  night  very  comfortably  in  the  best 
hotel. 

There  are  about  61,000  Methodists  in  Ireland 
and  250  Methodist  ministers.  For  thirty  years 
laymen  have  had  equal  representation  in  the 
Annual  Conferences,  and  are  very  generally 
welcomed  to  the  pulpits.  This  utter  absence 
of  sacerdotalism  brings  Methodism  into  sharp 
contrast  with  Romanism.  The  Presbyterians 
are  strong,  especially  in  Ulster,  having  a  fol- 
lowing of  over  400,000.  The  Church  of  Ireland 
(Protestant)  has  a  membership  of  nearly  600,000. 
The  Catholic  population  is  said  to  be  3,321,011. 
This  comes  very  close  to  being  two-thirds  of 
the  entire  population  of  the  island.  Romanism 
cannot  be  crushed  in  Ireland  nor  will  Prot- 
estantism die,  but  Irishmen  of  all  denomina- 
tions must  come  to  a  larger  realization  of  the 
joys  and  obligations  of  the  brotherhood  of  the 
Cross.  Thus  only  can  the  broader  prosperity 
be  achieved,  and  thus  only  can  the  Prince  of 
Peace  be  honored  according  to  the  deserving 
of  His  great  name. 

Diagram  Ireland  as  a  target  and  Athlone  will 
be  found  within  the  bull  's-eye  circle.  Athlone  is 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  85 

central,  distant  but  78  miles  from  Dublin. 
Athlone  is  ancient,  and  historically  important. 
Athlone  is  a  Shannon  city,  it  straddles  the 
river.  Athlone  reminded  me  again  of  the 
only  King  John— for  the  Castle  was  built  in 
his  time;  also  of  Ginkell  and  St.  Ruth,  rival 
generals  who  contended  for  possession  in  the 
stirring  days  of  James  II.;  also  of  the  Duke 
of  Wellington,  who  was  once  quartered  there ; 
also  and  more  especially  of  "The  Widow 
Malone"  so  musically  celebrated  by  Charles 
Lever : — 

"Did  ye  hear  of  the  widow    Malone, 

Ohone ! 
Who  lived  in  the  town  of   Athlone, 

Alone? 
Oh!    she  melted  the  hearts 
Of  the  swains  in  them  parts, 
So   lovely   the   widow   Malone. 

Ohone ! 

So  lovely  the  widow  Malone. " 
That  wonderful  Irishman,  Oliver  Goldsmith, 
was  recalled  to  memory  because  of  the 
proximity  of  "The  Deserted  Village,"  and  that 
holy  man,  St.  Kieran,  by  the  sacred  ruins  of 
Clonmacnoise,  only  nine  miles  away,  where 
crumbled  churches,  round  towers,  crosses  and 
inscriptions  compel  a  pathetic  reflection  upon 


86  AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE. 

the  learning,  industry,  piety,  and  glory  of  an 
age  now  shadowed  in  the  dim  recess  of  the 
centuries. 

Athlone  is  an  anachronism.  It  belongs  to  an 
ancient  order  of  things.  It  is  a  vision  out  of 
that  haunting  dream  that  we  call  the  past. 
There  are  just  a  few  specks  of  modernism  upon 
it.  I  will  remember  long  those  winding  streets 
and  topsy-turvey  alleys,  the  long  Railway 
Bridge,  the  Barracks,  the  Old  Castle,  the 
salmon  weir,  and  the  boatmen  casting  for  trout 
in  the  river.  A  grimy  crew  were  unloading  coal 
from  a  schooner  recently  arrived  from  Dublin 
via  the  Grand  Canal.  Looking  into  the  faces 
of  the  men  one  could  not  tell  whether  they 
were  Hottentot  or  Hibernian,  but  I  took  it  for 
granted  that  there  were  white  skins  down 
somewhere  beneath  the  coal  dust,  and  was  glad 
of  the  evidence  that  all  Ireland  does  not  burn 
peat. 

Athlone  is  properly  proud  of  the  vicinage  of 
Lough  Ree,  with  its  romantic  associations.  It 
is  an  Irish  Lake  George,  plus  antiquities  and 
myths.  Enough  has  not  yet  been  said  about  the 
lakes  of  Ireland.  They  are  pearls  in  emerald 
settings. 


XII.      ON   TO   SLIGO. 


Connaught  is  the  great  western  province  of 
Ireland.  Mayo  is  the  great  Northwest  County 
of  Connaught.  Ballyhaunis  is  a  small  town  in 
Mayo  County  where  I  left  the  train  for  an 
afternoon's  ramble  in  the  country.  'It  is  a  fair 
country  to  look  upon,  with  gently  sloping  hills 
and  green  valleys  freely  patched  with  little 
lakes  and  streaked  with  threading  rivers. 
Pasture  and  bog  lands  are  plentiful.  Farms 
are  small  but  apparently  fertile.  Poverty  is 
not  abject,  for  the  peasants  are,  I  should  say, 
as  a  class  clean  and  industrious. 

Connaught  types  are  interesting.  There  was 
the  good  priest  with  his  carroty  head  and 
cheery  face,  of  whom  I  ventured  to  ask 
directions.  Said  he,  "What  State  are  you 
from?"  I  was  again  pleased  at  being  so 
quickly  recognized  as  an  American.  I  told  him 
state  and  city,  and  to  my  surprise  learned  that 
he  had  once  lived  in  Newark,  New  Jersey, 
himself.  He  spoke  familiarly  of  streets,  public 
buildings,  churches  and  people,  and  there  on 
the  village  street  the  Mayo  priest  and  the 
Jersey  dominie  had  a  little  love  feast.    An  hour 


88  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

or  so  later  I  conversed  with  a  farmer 's  wife 
who  had  spent  eleven  years  in  the  United 
States — "though  I  don't  look  it  now/'  said  she. 
But  she  did  look  it,  in  spite  of  coarse  shawl, 
patched  skirt  and  care-drawn  face.  The 
American  spirit  is  a  light  that  cannot  be  hid 
under  any  bushel.  It  was  in  her  soul  and  it 
flashed  in  manner  and  speech,  though  she  had 
married  a  man  of  the  soil  and  had  gone  back 
to  the  cabin  and  the  potato  patch. 

"Is  this  the  road  to  Ballina?"  I  asked  of  an 
aged  woman  hobbling  along  at  the  cross  road. 
"It's  not,"  said  she.  "I  suppose  I  will  have  to 
go  on  to  the  next  turn,"  said  I.  "Ye  will 
that,"  said  she.  Her  replies  were  sharp  and 
short.  They  snapped.  They  blocked  conversa- 
tion. I  had  met  another  type.  The  preponder- 
ance of  aged  people  in  Ireland  is  a  sorry 
spectacle  and  is  of  course  related  to  the  prob- 
lem of  emigration.  The  young  have  quick  ears 
and  they  hear  the  call ;  they  have  brave  hearts, 
strong  hands  and  willing  feet.  They  go.  The 
old  are  not  so.  They  must  stay.  This  is  the 
country  whose  population  was  cut  in  half  in 
half  a  century.  The  number  of  persons  now 
living  in  the  United  States  of  Irish  birth  or 
parentage  is  greater  than  the  entire  population 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  89 

of  Ireland.  The  average  age  of  emigrants  is 
twenty  years.  Hundreds  of  these  old  people 
remaining  at  home  are  dependent  upon  the 
money  sent  by  sons  and  daughters  across  the 
sea,  but  they  are  doomed  to  a  lonely  old  age. 
My  heart  went  out  to  the  tottering  woman  at 
the  cross  roads. 

Another    type    soon    appeared.      There  was 
just  a  fringe  of  thin  white  hair  showing  be- 
neath  the   rim   of  his   antiquated   derby  hat. 
Between  his  lips  was  the  stem  of  his  beloved 
"dudheen."     One  hand  gripped  a  blackthorn 
while  the  other  held  a  rope,  the  further  end  of 
which  was   tied    to    the    hind    leg    of    a  huge 
porker,  a  rather  nervous  animal  judging  from 
the  constant  jerking  of  the  aforesaid  hind  leg. 
The  man,  I  judged,  was  a  peaceable  citizen, 
an  "old  timer,"  affable,  though  not  especially 
talkative,  and  quite  willing  to  submit  to  the 
kodaking  ordeal.  Then  came  the  two  towsie  tots 
who  called  from  the  potato  patch  in  eager   en- 
treaty to  have  their  pictures  taken;   the  young 
turf  gatherer  with  her  basket  laden  donkey, 
and  the  stout  bodied  laborer,  who  lamented  the 
peasant  farmer's  hard  lot,  but  agreed  that  con- 
ditions were  not  as  bad  as  they  used  to  be.    All 
of  which  are  but  a  few  of  the  details  of  a  pic- 


90  AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE. 

ture  of  rare  charm  and  warm  human  interest. 

Sligo,  "Capital  of  the  Northwest,"  like  Ath- 
lone  and  Limerick,  is  dim  with  the  dust  of 
centuries.  It  gives  no  evidence  of  ambition 
however  rich  it  might  be  in  experience.  It  is 
undisturbed  by  Twentieth  Century  sparkle 
and  spirit.  Round  about  are  to  be  found 
some  of  Ireland's  most  interesting  archaeo- 
logical remains  and  most  varied  scenery. 
"Like  as  the  mountains  are  round  about  Jeru- 
salem," so  the  rugged  hills  encompass  Sligo, 
forming  a  circle  twenty  miles  or  more  in 
diameter,  comprehending  a  wealth  of  woodland 
and  water  charms  known  as  the  Killarney  of 
the  North.  Many  weeks  could  be  profitably 
employed  amid  these  sylvan  splendors,  ram- 
bling, climbing,  riding,  hunting,  fishing,  golf- 
ing, exploring,  writing,  painting,  according  to 
taste,  whim  or  talent.  I  met  some  English 
gentlemen  at  the  hotel,  one  of  whom  was 
about  to  purchase  an  estate  in  the  vicinity, 
declaring  that  there  was  no  place  equal  to  it  in 
England.  He  was  a  sportsman,  and  had  trav- 
elled the  Kingdom  thoroughly. 

In  the  city  are  to  be  seen  the  Cathedral,  the 
Bishop's  Palace,  the  old  Gothic  Abbey  in 
mournful   ruins,    the    monument  of  O'Connor 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  91 

Sligo,  dating  back  to  the  first  quarter  of  the 
17th  century,  and  such  other  historic  mark- 
ings as  so  ancient  a  town  may  be  depended 
upon  to  possess.  Mr.  Gallagher,  boatman  down 
by  the  old  stone  bridge,  Mr.  William  Galla- 
gher, with  second  g  silent,  bearded,  bronzed, 
wrinkled,  blue  eyed,  hoary  headed,  staunch 
Catholic,  determined  Nationalist  would,  for  the 
pleasure  of  it  and  ten  shillings,  introduce  me 
to  the  pristine  glories  of  Lough  Gill.  Again, 
there  was  "nothin'  loike  it"  in  all  Ireland. 
Other  obliging  gentlemen  there  were  who 
would  be  exultingly  happy  to  pilot  the  traveler 
to  the  megalithic  curiosities  at  Carrowmore. 
Or  would  it  be  a  venture  to  the  glens  and  crags 
of  Knocknarea?  Alas,  that  there  is  so  much  to 
see  and  so  little  time  in  which  to  see  it! 
Ulysses  probably  uttered  the  same  lament 
after  his  twenty  years  of  traveling. 


XIII.      UP  IN   ULSTER. 

Across  County  Leitrim,  and  in  the  very  heart 
of  Fermanagh  lies  happy  Enniskillen.  It  is 
forty-eight  miles  from  Sligo.  It  is  also  about 
four  centuries  away.  Enniskillen  is  exhilarat- 
ing. I  had  seen  so  much  of  decay  and  depression, 
so  much  of  wrack  wrought  by  the  despoiling 
hand  of  time  and  by  the  destructions  of  war — 
ruins,  ruins  .  everywhere;  rtains  of  walls, 
houses,  mills,  castles,  forts,  towers,  churches, 
monasteries,  abbeys,  monuments,  bridges, — a 
civilization  in  ashes!  Beauty  bedraggled! 
Such  was  Western  Ireland;  a  Samson  shorn 
and  blind — ah,  the  pity  of  it  all!  But  Ennis- 
killen is  not  in  ashes,  backwardness  is  not  her 
fashion,  and  her  beauty  is  not  faded.  There 
was  a  style  and  throb  of  things  I  had  not  seen 
since  leaving  Cork, — hence  the  exhilaration. 
Ulster,  the  great  Northern  province,  is  Ire- 
land's crown  of  prosperity. 

Like  a  great  blue  sash,  Lough  Erne  lies 
across  County  Fermanagh  from  northwest  to 
southeast.  Enniskillen  is  a  silver  buckle  glis- 
tening in  the  folds  of  the  sash,  an  ornament 
far    famed    for    its    modest    beauty.      It    is 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  93 

an  Irish  Interlaken.  Some  say  there  is 
no  lovelier  spot  in  the  British  Isles.  The 
region  abounds  in  places,  objects  and  scenes  of 
peculiar  interest.  Devenish  Island,  now  in 
ruins,  was  for  many  generations  a  center  of 
learning  and  dovotion,  St.  Molaise  having 
flourished  there  as  far  back  as  the  sixth 
century.  At  the  end  of  Lower  Lough  Erne  is 
the  town  famed  throughout  many  lands  for  its 
ceramic  creations,  the  village  of  Belleek.  The 
Pottery  is  kept  busy  trying  to  supply  the 
demand  for  the  exquisitely  delicate  and  irri- 
descent  Beleek  china,  which  was  originally 
made  of  clay  found  in  the  vicinity,  is  most 
artistically  fashioned  into  a  great  variety  of 
forms,  and  possesses  a  marvellous  lustre. 

A  hill  near  the  station  at  Enniskillen  has 
been  transformed  into  a  beautiful  park,  with 
gracefully  winding  paths,  luxuriant  herbage 
and  pretty  gardens.  At  the  apex  stands  a 
lofty  monument  in  honor  of  Sir  Lowry  Cole, 
a  Peninsula  hero,  and  near  by  a  clock  tower 
as  a  Plunkett  memorial.  The  view  of  the 
distant  landscape  with  its  nestling  lakes  is 
superb.  In  nature 's  library  it  is  an  edition  de 
luxe.  It  is  the  most — there  comes  that  superl- 
ative again !  From  the  park  entrance  Townhall 


94  AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE. 

Street  curves  away  toward  the  river,  a  street 
wide  and  clean,  and  with  an  array  of  shops, 
hotels,  banks  and  churches  not  excelled  surely 
in  any  town  of  the  size  of  Enniskillen  in  any 
country. 

Enniskillen  men  have  in  the  past  given  full 
proof  of  the  quality  of  their  soldiership.  You 
may  find  in  the  Parish  Church  standards  borne 
with  honor  at  Waterloo.  Their  services  in  the 
Protestant  cause  made  them  feared  of  the 
Jacobites.  This  is  the  country  of  heroes.  Before 
it  became  possessed  of  the  English,  Enniskillen 
was  the  stronghold  of  the  doughty  Macguires, 
chieftains  of  Fermanagh.  With  such  associa- 
tions, and  with  such  natural  endowments,  En- 
niskillen cannot  fail  to  interest  and  to  charm 
the  tourist.  It  is  a  place  in  which  to  be  happy. 
It  makes  the  kind  of  an  impression  that  one  de- 
lights to  cherish.  It  invites  to  rest.  It  soothes 
while  it  inspires.  Enniskillen,  one  cannot  for- 
get, is  up  in  Ulster. 


XIV.      A   LOOK    AT    LONDONDERRY. 

Cutting  the  corners  of  Tyrone,  Donegal  and 
Derry  Counties,  the  Great  Northern  train  sped 
through  a  smiling  Eden,  and  for  miles  along 
the  river  Foyle,  to  Londonderry,  one  of  the 
most  picturesque  cities  in  Ireland.  It  is  not, 
however,  an  Irish  city.  It  is  Irish  neither  in 
appearance,  in  spirit,  nor  in  method  of  gov- 
ernment. The  Honorable  Irish  Society  of  Lon- 
don holds  the  charter,  collects  ground  rents, 
and  determines  the  officiary.  It  has  been  so 
for  nearly  300  years. 

The  first  thing  to  do  at  Londonderry  is  to 
mount  the  old  city  wall,  the  top  of  which  is 
now  a  popular  promenade  about  a  mile  around. 
The  wall  was  built  in  1609  at  a  cost  of  but 
little  over  $41,000.  It  was  evidently  built  to 
stay,  and  is  apparently  as  solid  now  as  in  the 
terrible  year  1689.  That  was  the  year  of  the 
most  famous  siege  in  English  or  Irish  history, 
the  Siege  of  Londonderry,  although  the  Eoman 
Catholic  historian  may  refuse  to  consider  it  in 
that  light,  calling  it  a  "blockade"  rather 
than  a  "siege."  It  is  so  represented  in  Sul- 
livan's   "The     Story    of    Ireland."      Greene 


96  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

calls  it  a  siege  turned  into  a  blockade. 
Call  it  what  yon  will,  the  memory  of 
the  event  hangs  about  the  ancient  wall  today 
as  a  mystic  token  of  that  spirit  of  heroism 
which  has  redeemed  the  grossness  of  human 
nature  in  all  lands,  and  nowhere  more  tri- 
umphantly than  on  Hibernia's  shores. 

The  most  conspicuous  object  on  the  wall  is 
the  great  Doric  column,  90  feet  high,  sur- 
mounted by  a  figure  representing  the  Rev. 
George  Walker,  the  hero  of  the  siege.  There 
he  stands  in  noble  pose,  Bible  in  hand,  and 
pointing  a  prophetic  finger  in  the  direction  of 
Lough  Foyle,  whence  relief  finally  came. 
There  are  a  number  of  guns  still  planted  in  the 
bastions,  one  of  which  having  done  consider- 
able execution,  and  having  made  much  noise 
in  doing  it,  is  stamped  "Roaring  Meg."  I  was 
very  happy  to  think  that  Meg's  roaring  days 
are  over.  I  patted  the  smooth  metal  of  the  old 
gun  with  curious  fingers,  and  then  went  over 
to  the  Cathedral  especially  to  look  at  the  shell 
that  came  over  the  wall  during  the  siege, 
loaded  with  conditions  of  surrender.  That  shot 
was  wasted.  Surrender?  Not  though  famine 
and  pestilence  were  decimating  their  numbers, 
and  horse,  dog  and  cat  flesh  had  become  their 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  97 

best  food.  Surrender?  Not  while  the  Rev. 
George  Walker  could  commune  with  the  Eter- 
nal, preach  the  Word  of  Life,  and  keep  the 
spark  of  hope  alive  in  their  breasts.  No,  they 
would  not  surrender,  and  the  siege  ran  on,  and 
on,  and  on,  for  105  days,  and  then  King  Wil- 
liam's merchantmen  broke  the  boom  in  Lough 
Foyle  and  brought  provisions  to  the  famished 
city, — provisions  and  victory!  So  "No  Sur- 
render" is  the  motto  of  Londonderry. 

There  is  more  to  Derry  of  course  than  that 
old  wall  with  its  historic  gates,  bastions,  guns 
and  monuments.  There  are  two  cathedrals,  for 
instance,  several  famous  colleges,  streets  re- 
minding one  of  busy  Broadway,  mammoth 
stores  with  alluring  displays  of  linen  and  lace, 
and  factories  employing  thousands  of  men  and 
women.  The  city  is  beautifully  situated  upon 
the  Foyle,  and  rises  from  the  river  somewhat 
as  Albany  rises  from  the  Hudson.  Trans- 
atlantic steamers  carry  many  passengers  to  and 
from  this  port.  It  is  a  commodious  harbor 
lined  with  spacious  quays.  Near  the  Shipquay 
gate  stands,  or  did  stand,  the  Guildhall,  the 
architectural  gem  of  the  city.  It  was  destroyed 
by  fire  on  the  19th  of  April,  1908,  but  when  I 
saw  it    three    months    later,    the    square  clock 


98  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

tower  stood  forth  above  the  ruins  in  blackened, 
yet  impressive  solitude. 

As  St.  Fin  Barre  is  related  to  the  history  of 
Cork,  so  is  St.  Columba  related  to  the  history 
of  Londonderry.  In  the  year  546  the  pious 
man  instituted  his  abbey  at  the  "Place  of 
Oaks."  Around  it  spread  the  settlement  and 
out  of  the  settlement  grew  the  city.  It  was 
the  age  of  learning  in  Ireland.  Kings  and 
nobles  from  every  country  in  Europe  hied  them 
hither  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  sages.  But  for 
tribal  animosities,  Danish  incursions,  Norman 
conquests  and  Tudor  desecrations  Ireland 
might  have  been  known  through  the  centuries 
as  the  University  of  the  World  rather  than  as 
a  school  for  scandal.  Every  old  city  in  Ireland, 
like  Londonderry,  is  a  pathetic  reminder  of 
that  glorious  destiny  to  which  Erin  at  one 
time  seemed  appointed.  The  country  of  the 
Bleeding  Heart,  should  have  been  the  land  of 
the  Crimson  Rambler. 


XV.      POETEUSH   AND   THE   GIANT'S   CAUSEWAY. 

Portrush,  by  an  obvious  pun,  is  a  port  to 
which  thousands  rush  for  their  summer  pleas- 
ures, their  vacation  outing  and  sight  seeing. 
It  is  steadily  increasing  in  popularity.  The 
summer  population  is  a  generous  mixture  of 
Scotch,  English,  Irish  and  American,  with  a  dash 
of  Italian  organ  grinder  and  Armenian  ven- 
dor. Hotels  and  boarding  houses  furnish  com- 
fortable accommodations  at  prices  that  would 
bankrupt  Atlantic  City.  Store  windows  pre- 
sent the  usual  pleasure  resort  display,  and  the 
stores  and  shops  are  usually  filled  with  eager 
purchasers.  The  main  thoroughfares  are 
crowded  during  the  evening  with  prom- 
enaders,  and  groups  of  visitors  chatting, 
laughing,  singing,  sk^vtarking,  quite  in 
holiday  style.  Here  was  the  first  scene  of 
hilarity  I  had  witnessed  in  Ireland.  Verily  it 
is  good  to  hear  the  hearty  laugh  and  the  merry 
song.  I  had  come  to  feel  that  the  proverbial 
jollity  and  good  humor  of  Michael  and  Bridget 
was  rather  proverbial  than  apparent.  The  peo- 
ple of  the  South  and  West  had  impressed  me  as 


100  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

being  serious,  solemn  and  even  gloomy — ex- 
cept in  the  attempt  to  extract  a  six  pence  by 
some  witticism  in  sale  or  beggary.  The 
''perennial  supply"  is  surely  a  myth.  At 
Portrush,  however,  there  was  merriment  and 
music  to  spare.  An  approach  toward  rowdy- 
ism on  the  part  of  some  gay  young  fellows  was 
instantly  checked  by  the  watchful  constabu- 
lary. The  current  of  life  was  running  strong. 
A  dance  was  in  full  swing  in  a  large  hall.  A 
theatrical  performance  was  being  given  in  an 
open  air  theatre  down  on  the  strand.  A 
Stentor  of  righteousness  was  stationed  at  a 
street  corner  preaching  repentance  to  a  crowd 
of  respectful  listeners,  and  reminding  them  in 
unequivocal  language  of  the  judgment  to  come. 
Thousands  of  people  were  gathered  about  an 
open  square  in  the  centre  of  which  was  a  large 
band  stand.  A  concert  was  in  progress,  and 
the  music  was  of  a  most  excellent  order,  as  the 
constant  applause  indicated. 

All  the  essential  features  of  a  popular  up-to- 
date  coast  resort  are  to  be  found  at  Portrush, 
and  I  doubt  not  that  many  good  folks  find 
health  and  happiness  amid  the  festivities  of  the 
town  and  in  the  ocean  breezes  that  sweep  the 
rocky  shores. 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  101 

Not  far  from  the  station  and  in  seeming  con- 
trast to  the  holiday  gayety  stands  the  solemn 
obelisk  erected  to  the  memory  of  Dr.  Adam 
Clark,  author,  preacher,  missionary,  linguist, 
commentator,  great  scholar,  an  illustrious 
Irishman  well  deserving  a  monument.  The 
expense  of  the  memorial  was  met  by 
contributions  from  Methodists  and  friends 
in  all  parts  of  the  world.  It  stands  on 
a  natural  elevation,  in  an  enclosure  adjoining 
the  Memorial  Church,  and  a  short  distance 
back  from  the  sidewalk.  The  inscription 
reads : — 

In  everlasting  remembrance  of  Dr.  Adam  Clark 
Natus,  circitur  1760.  Obit  1832. 
Servant  of  the  Most  High,  who  in  preach- 
ing the  Gospel  with  great  labors  and  Apos- 
tolic grace  through  more  than  50  years, 
showed  to  myraids  the  way  of  salvation,  and 
by  his  commentary  on  the  Holy  Scriptures  and 
other  works  of  piety  and  learning  yet  speaks 
to  the  passing  generation.     Soli  Gloria  Deo. 

Any  country  in  the  world  might  be  proud  of 
a  man  like  Dr.  Clark.  His  genius  was  as  broad 
and  unquestioned  as  that  of  Edmund  Burke  or 
Daniel  O'Connell  and  was  consecrated  to  still 
nobler  ends.     The  rapturous  plaudits  of  one's 


102  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

countrymen  do  not  follow  the  evangelist  and 
the  scholar  as  they  do  the  statesman,  the  re- 
former, the  orator  and  the  soldier,  but  judg- 
ing according  to  the  length  of  service,  the 
quality  of  work,  the  breadth,  originality  and 
accuracy  of  his  scholarship,  the  value  of  his 
contributions  to  the  world's  religious  thought 
and  knowledge,  the  strong  consistency  of  his 
character,  the  mighty  uplift  that  went  forth 
from  his  life  to  the  lives  of  others,  his  daring 
devotion  to  the  principles  of  the  everlasting 
kingdom, — who  can  say  that  Adam  Clark  was 
not  the  peer  in  greatness,  if  not  in  renown,  to 
his  illustrious  fellow  countrymen  and  contem- 
poraries Lord  Nelson  and  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton? The  comparison  is  a  bold  one,  I  know, 
but  it  was  one  of  the  impressions  that  came  as 
I  gazed  thoughtfully  at  that  modest  granite 
shaft  at  Portrush.  Many  Irishmen  have 
achieved  greatness  and  Dr.  Clark  was  not  the 
least  of  them. 

An  electric  tramway,  the  first  to  be  built  in 
the  British  Isles  or  elsewhere,  runs  along  the 
coast  from  Portrush  to  the  Giant's  Causeway, 
a  distance  of  about  eight  miles.  The  ride  may 
be  counted  as  one  of  the  memorable  experiences 
of  a  lifetime.     It  lies  along  the  edge  of  the 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  103 

rugged  cliffs  rising  high  from  the  sea  and  af- 
fording a  distant  view  across  the  waters.  The 
white  of  the  chalk  exposures  forms  a  charm- 
ing color  scheme  with  the  blues  and  grays  of 
the  water  below  and  the  rich  green  of  the 
verdure  above.  The  incessant  waves  have 
chiseled,  bored  and  slashed  the  cliffs  into  fan- 
tastic outlines,  curious  caves,  tunnels  and 
arches.  The  elements  have  there  elabor- 
ated a  wild  architecture  beyond  the  reach  of 
all  canons  of  art,  mightier  in  its  sweep,  and 
grander  in  execution  than  that  of  famed 
cathedrals  of  Spain  and  Italy. 

Dunluce  Castle  crowns  a  rocky  precipice 
about  half  way  between  Portrush  and  Giant's 
Causeway.  Considering  its  size,  location  and 
general  aspect  as  viewed  from  a  short  distance, 
it  is  the  most  astounding  castle  ruin  I  have 
ever  seen,  not  excepting  the  storied  piles  of  the 
Rhine.  Separated  from  the  mainland  by  a 
deep  and  dangerous  gully,  the  deserted  walls 
linger  on  the  cheerless  summit  a  hundred  feet 
above  the  pounding  sea,  towers  and  parapets 
forming  a  sombre  silhouette  against  a  sullen 
sky.  During  the  16th  Century  Dunluce  was 
in  its  glory.  That  many  brilliant  and  many 
tragic    events   connect   themselves   with   those 


104  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

spacious  halls  and  overhanging  chambers,  is 
a  safe  conjecture  amply  substantiated  in  his- 
tory. The  Castle  once  withstood  a  siege  for 
nine  months.  It  was  finally  abandoned,  fell 
into  decay,  and  has  not  been  occupied  for  over 
two  hundred  years.  Today  it  seems  a  realis- 
tic picture  adorning  an  ancient  tale  of  some 
wonderland  of  dreams. 

" Don't  be  expecting  too  much,"  said  a 
cautious  young  Scotchman  as  we  approached 
the  Giant's  Causeway.  My  highest  expecta- 
tions were  more  than  realized,  however,  and 
I  am  somewhat  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  oc- 
casional expressions  of  disappointment  at  this 
astounding  miracle  of  nature.  It  may  be  that 
the  pictures  of  the  Causeway  are  misleading 
and  that  the  tourist  expects  to  behold  a  tower- 
ing mass  rising  like  a  mountain  toward  the 
clouds,  dominating  the  coast  and  landscape. 
Instead,  he  must  go  down,  far  down  a  rocky 
path  from  lofty  cliff  to  low  shore  before  it  is 
possible  to  view  the  phenomenon.  But  there 
it  is,  the  product  of  forces  transcending  the 
comprehension  of  mortals,  so  ancient  as  to 
antedate  human  history,  and  to  remain  prob- 
ably after  man  with  his  little  burden  of  hopes 
and  fears  shall  have  passed  from  the    earth. 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  105 

It  is  a  great  group  of  40,000  stone  pillars,  from 
one  to  one  hundred  feet  in  height,  geometric- 
ally shaped,  pentagons  and  hexagons  prevail- 
ing, with  tops  sometimes  concave  and  some- 
times convex — a  wonderful  formation  of 
basalt,  the  result  of  the  cooling  contracting 
and  cracking  of  a  lava  stream.  There  are  a 
number  of  large  caves  in  the  vicinity  of  pecul- 
iar scenic  and  geological  interest,  one  of  them 
450  feet  long,  which  in  calm  weather  may  be 
entered  in  a  boat.  The  various  columns  and 
recesses  are  given  names  usually  in  associa- 
tion with  certain  objects  they  are  supposed  to 
resemble.  A  minute  description  of  the  whole 
scene  would  involve  a  too  lengthy  if  not  quite 
impossible  task. 

Having  paid  my  little  fee,  a  blessed  privilege 
conferred  upon  the  public  by  a  benevolent 
syndicate,  I  passed  through  what  is  known  as 
the  Giant's  Gate  and  stood  facing  the  amphi- 
theatre. Here  the  beetling  cliff  takes  the  form 
of  a  crescent  and  imbedded  in  its  curving  side 
is  that  line  of  columns  known  as  the  Giant's 
Organ.  The  wind  was  making  music  fortissimo 
that  day  and  my  imagination  was  quite  equal 
to  the  crowding  of  the  amphitheatre  with 
music-loving  giants,  applauding  the  recital  of 


106  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

a  master.  I  climbed  out  over  the  slippery 
pillars  to  the  water's  edge.  The  gale  threat- 
ened to  carry  me  into  the  sea.  An  occasional 
dash  of  rain  swept  down  over  the  precipice  and 
the  moaning  of  the  deep  and  the  fretting  of 
the  waves  accentuated  the  weird  and  awful 
grandeur  of  the  spectacle.  I  was  not  sorry 
that  the  wind  howled  and  the  rain  splashed 
and  the  waters  boiled  for  the  effect  was  a 
magnificent  approach  to  the  terrible.  It  was 
giant  weather  at  the  Giant's  Causeway.  The 
scene  was  like  a  Shakespearian  tragedy  or  a 
Veretschagen  war  painting,  both  fascinating 
and  startling.  Those  prudent  people  who  only 
travel  when  the  sun  shines  do  not  know  the 
sweetest  secrets  of  this  moody  little  world. 


XVI.      ANTRIM,  THE   STBONGHOLD  OF  PBOTESTANISM. 

County  Antrim  occupies  the  Northeast 
corner  of  the  rhomboidal  island,  and  is  the 
stronghold  of  Protestantism  and  prosperity. 
There  Protestants  outnumber  Catholics  three 
to  one.  There  homes  are  happy,  farms  are 
large,  fields  are  grain  laden,  cities  are  clean, 
factories  are  busy,  schools  are  plentiful, 
churches  are  popular,  and  the  people  intelli- 
gent, industrious  and  contented.  The  journey 
to  Belfast  across  the  full  length  of  this  favored 
country  gives  abundant  evidence  of  these 
pleasing  conditions.  The  American  traveler 
is  expected  to  be  profoundly  interested  in  the 
announcement  that  this  is  the  ancestral  home 
of  the  McKinley's.  William  McKinley,  Presi- 
dent, was  the  son  of  William  who  was  the  son 
of  James  who  was  the  son  of  David,  whose 
father  emigrated  from  the  village  of  Conagher 
in  the  year  1743.  From  the  father  of  David  to 
the  second  William  was  a  period  long  enough 
to  work  a  most  perfect  Americanization,  yet  I 
remember  having  heard  a  supposedly  intelli- 
gent and  well-to-do  American  citizen  declare, 


108  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

during  McKinley's  first  Presidential  campaign, 
that  he  would  never  vote  for  ' '  that  Irishman. ' ' 
Bigotry  and  prejudice  are  not  confined  to  any 
one  country  but  lurks  beneath  all  flags. 

The  town  of  Antrim  is  situated  about  21 
miles  from  Belfast,  on  the  little  river  known 
as  Six  Mile  Water  near  its  junction  with  Lough 
Neagh,  the  largest  lake  in  the  British  Isles. 
Near  Antrim  is  the  best  preserved  of  all  the 
old  Round  Towers  of  Ireland.  It  is  92  feet 
high,  50  feet  around  at  the  base,  and  has  a 
conical  top.  It  stands  now  within  the  en- 
closure of  a  most  beautiful  estate,  the  entrance 
to  which  is  an  embowered  roadway  thickly 
fringed  with  laurel,  rhododendron  and  ivy. 
My  jarvey,  a  bright  lad  of  fifteen,  and  by  all 
means  the  most  satisfactory  one  I  had  met  in 
my  travels,  waited  at  the  gate  explaining  that 
he  was  not  allowed  to  drive  in.  Thus  it  hap- 
pened that  I  stood  alone  in  the  honored  pres- 
ence. Solitude  has  its  compensations,  and 
companionship  has  its  distractions.  Erect 
upon  the  greensward  like  a  gray-cowled  friar, 
tall,  solemn,  silent,  solitary,  the  tower  is  an 
interesting  object  to  behold.  It  is  one  of  the 
oldest  of  the  70  such  edifices  now  to  be  found 
in  Ireland,   and  must  therefore  date  back  to 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  109 

the  9th  Century.     There  is  an  opening  in  the 
side  toward  the  north  about  ten  feet  from  the 
ground,  through  which  it  is  believed  an  en- 
trance was  wont  to  be  made  by  means    of    a 
ladder.     Speculations,  wide  and  wild  some  of 
them,  have  been  advanced  from  time  to  time 
to   account  for  the   origin  of    these    peculiar 
structures.     It  is  romantic  indeed  to  consider 
them  the  rude  expressions  of  ancient  Persian 
or   Egyptian   superstitions,   to     connect    them 
with  Oriental  symbolism  or  with    Buddhistic 
or  Druidic  ceremonialism,  or  to  view  them  as 
deserted  temples  of  science,  the  relics  of    an 
astronomical  age,  but  it    is    much    easier    to 
fancy  the  members  of  a  Christian  ecclesiastical 
community  scurrying  up  the  ladder  and  pull- 
ing the  ladder  in  after  them  at  the  approach 
of  a  band   of  Norse    marauders.     That    they 
would  have  been  comparatively  safe  in  such 
a  place  and  that  they  occasionally  needed  such 
protection   is   no   conjecture;    and    the    same 
building  would  have  served   admirably  as    a 
bell,  signal  and  watch  tower.     They  were  thus 
used  probably  for  several  centuries. 

In  Act  II.  of  Bernard  Shaw's  "John  Bull's 
Other   Island"   occurs  this   dialogue.— 

Father  Dempsey.    D'ye  see   the   top   o'   the 


BOSTON  COLLBGB  UBRAKY 

CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 


110  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

Roun'  Tower  there?  That's  an  antiquity 
worth  lookin'  at. 

Broadbent  (deeply  interested).  Have  you 
any  theory  as  to  what  the  Round  Towers  were 
for? 

Father  Dempsey  (a  little  offended).  A 
theory?  Me!  (Theories  are  connected  in  his 
mind  with  the  late  Professor  Tyndall  and  with 
scientific  scepticism  generally;  also,  perhaps, 
with  the  view  that  the  Bound  Towers  are 
phallic  symbols). 

Cornelius  (remonstrating).  Father  Dempsey 
is  the  priest  of  the  parish,  Mr.  Broadbent. 
What  would  he  be  doing  with  a  theory? 

Father  Dempsey  (with  gentle  emphasis).  I 
have  a  knowledge  of  what  the  Roun'  Towers 
were,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  They  are  the 
forefingers  of  the  early  Church,  pointing  us  all 
to  God." 

Verily  knowledge  is  better  than  theory,  and 
Father  Dempsey 's  explanation  is  good  enough 
for  the  most  of  us. 

It  may  be  seen  from  the  map  that  Lough 
Neagh  is  an  extensive  body  of  water  touch- 
ing the  shores  of  five  counties,  is  saddle  shaped 
on  two  sides,  is  fed  by  ten  streams  and  throws 
its  full  flood  northward  to  the  Atlantic  by  way 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  Ill 

of  the  River  Bann.  It  has  an  area  of  153 
square  miles  and  its  greatest  depth  is  slightly 
over  100  feet.  It  is  unusually  free  of  islands 
and  its  shores  are  low  and  marshy.  It  is 
therefore  scenically  scant  of  those  features 
that  appeal  most  eloquently  to  the  lover  of 
variety,  but  it  is  duly  celebrated  in  story,  and 
like  everything  Irish  is  entwined  in  folk  lore 
and  legend.  I  had  a  gladsome  spin  with  my 
little  jarvey  through  the  cozy  village  and  out 
to  the  lake  shore,  but  I  failed,  of  course,  to 
see  what  Moore's  fisherman  saw: — 

''Round  Towers  of  other  days 
In  the  waves  beneath  him  shining/ ' 


XVII.      THE    FOED    AT    THE    SAND-BANK. 

Belfast !  I  have  long  fancied  that  word,  and 
have  considered  the  city  fortunate  to  possess 
such  a  name.  It  is  both  robust  and  vibrant  sug- 
gesting the  piccolo  and  the  violin,  as  well  as 
cymbals  and  the  drum.  It  blends  two  ancient 
words,  the  one  meaning  ford  and  the  other 
sand-bank.  Its  etymology  no  longer  fits  con- 
ditions at  the  mouth  of  the  Lagan,  where 
sand-banks  have  given  place  to  long  quays, 
large  docks,  strong  bridges,  and  the  deep 
Victoria  Channel  running  far  out  into  Belfast 
Lough. 

Three  hundred  years  ago  Sir  Arthur  Chi- 
chester brought  over  his  Devonshire  colonists 
to  plant  the  foundations  of  what  is  now  the 
most  thriving  city  in  Ireland.  He  probably 
found  little  of  value  when  he  arrived,  for  the 
demons  of  conflict  had  been  rioting  there  for 
centuries,  during  which  time  communities  were 
established  but  to  be  ravaged  and  castles  were 
built  but  to  be  destroyed.  In  recent  years 
peace  has  been  doing  her  more  perfect  work, 
and  now  Belfast  is  a  populous  city,  beautiful 
and  busy.  To  realize  how  busy  a  place  it  is, 
one  has  but  to  consider  a  list  of  its    leading 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  113 

industries.  The  whole  world  knows  of  the 
primacy  of  Belfast  in  the  manufacture  of 
linen.  Broad  fields  of  waving  flax  are  to  be 
seen  everywhere  in  the  farming  districts  of 
Ulster,  and  it  is  a  matter  of  unfailing  interest 
to  observe  their  luxuriance  and  then  to  think 
of  the  process  of  cutting,  treating,  spinning, 
weaving,  bleaching,  etc.,  until  those  bending 
blades  of  fibre  have  been  transformed  by  the 
legerdemain  of  our  wonderful  modern  indus- 
trial and  commercial  machinery  and  methods 
into  soft  and  snowy  articles  for  the  ward- 
robes of  great  lords  and  fine  ladies.  The  busi- 
ness represents  a  value  of  about  sixty  million 
dollars  a  year,  and  Belfast  is  the  trade  centre. 
Long  strips  of  bleaching  linen  stretched  out 
on  the  clean  grass  are  observed  as  the  train 
nears  the  metropolis.  Miles  of  the  material 
is  thus  exposed  and  one  naturally  drops  into 
the  mood  of  fanciful  conjecturing,  for  instance, 
as  to  the  number  of  times  it  could  all  be  wrap- 
ped around  the  earth,  or  how  many  billions 
of  pocket  handkerchiefs  could  be  made  from 
the  lot.  Of  course  there  are  hundreds  of  mills 
and  factories  in  and  near  Belfast  devoted  to 
the  various  processes  involved  in  this  vast  in- 
dustry. 

Many  other  lines  of  manufacturing  are  also 


114  AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE. 

conspicuously  represented.  The  great  ship- 
yards ring  with  the  music  of  many  hammers 
and  blaze  with  the  light  of  many  forges  as 
the  monster  turbines  are  fashioned  for  the 
conquest  of  the  seas.  Ten  thousand  men  are 
employed  in  the  Harland  and  Wolff  yards, 
and  Workman  and  Clarke  carry  a  force  of 
three  thousand. 

Belfast  can  also  boast  of  the  largest  rope 
factory  in  the  British  Isles.  Then  there  are 
large  tobacco  factories,  iron  foundries,  dis- 
tilleries, breweries,  tanneries,  saw  mills,  flour 
mills,  and  scores  of  other  establishments  turn- 
ing out  such  diversified  products  as  agricul- 
tural implements,  matches,  ginger  ale,  bacon 
and  fertilizing  compounds.  All  of  this  neces- 
sitates a  forest  of  chimneys,  miles  of  bare  brick 
walls,  volumes  of  curling  smoke,  odors  well 
assorted  and  distributed,  and  the  usual  disad- 
vantages of  such  employments.  Yet  Belfast 
is  as  fairly  entitled  to  distinction  for  beauty  as 
for  business.  I  had  gathered  from  frequent 
conversations  that  all  Irishmen  are  proud  of 
Belfast.  I  heard  its  praises  sounded  at  Kil- 
larney,  Limerick  and  Sligo.  It  is  justly  the 
metropolis  of  the  north  and  the  boast  of  the 
whole  island. 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  115 

In  the  centre  of  Donegall  Square  stands  the 
new  City  Hall.     I  wonder  if  there  is  a  hand- 
somer   one    in    the    Kingdom?      I   wonder    if 
there  is  a  better  one  on  the  Continent  or  in  the 
United  States  in  any  city  of  less    than    four 
hundred    thousand     inhabitants?     For      com- 
parison in  population  we  may  think  of    San 
Francisco,   Cincinnati    and    Pittsburg,    all    of 
which  are  smaller,  and  of  Buffalo  and  Cleve- 
land,   both    of    which     are     larger.     Belfast 
stands  number  sixty  in  the  list  of  big  cities. 
Its  City  Hall  I  am  quite  sure  will  bear  the  test 
of  any  fair  comparison.     It  is  built  in  quadran- 
gular form   on    five     acres    of    ground.     The 
material    is    Portland    stone    richly     carved. 
There  are  corner  towers  120  feet  high  and  a 
great  central  dome,  somewhat  resembling  that 
of  our  nation's   Capitol,   175   feet  high.     The 
style  is  Classical  Renaissance.     Gardens,  artis- 
tically landscaped,  containing  a  variety  of  rare 
and  beautiful  plants  and  flowers,  and  appro- 
priate  statuary,   frame   the   architectural  pic- 
ture.    The  cost  of  grounds  and  buildings  was 
almost  $1,500,000. 

To  correct  the  notion  that  Ireland  is  but  the 
abode  of  wretchedness,  the  home  of  ignorance 
and  poverty,  the  mistaken  one  should  board 


116  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

a  tram  and  ride  through  some  of  those  beauti- 
ful Belfast  avenues.  For  example  he  may 
start  at  the  Albert  Memorial,  a  Venetian 
Gothic  clock  tower  143  feet  high,  and  ride 
along  High  Street,  Castle  Place  and  Donegall 
Place  to  the  City  Hall,  continuing  through 
Donegall  Square,  Wellington  Place,  passing 
what  is  claimed  to  be  the  most  complete  Young 
Men's  Christian  Association  Institute  in  the 
world,  to  College  Square  where  the  Cooke 
monument  will  be  an  object  of  interest;  thence 
out  along  Great  Victoria  Street  to  the  Queen's, 
Presbyterian  and  Methodist  Colleges,  and  the 
Botanical  Gardens.  The  ride  will  cost  but  a 
penny  or  two  and  the  passenger  will  have 
seen  more  evidences  of  wealth  and  culture 
than  can  be  seen  for  a  larger  fare  in  the 
majority  of  our  American  cities.  Those  col- 
leges and  museums  mean  that  the  old  love  of 
learning  still  exists.  Those  monuments  and 
parks  indicate  the  strength  of  civic  pride,  and 
those  beautiful  churches  show  that  Christ's 
Holy  Religion  is  still  as  it  has  been  for  cen- 
turies a  dominant  factor  in  Irish  affairs. 
Should  such  a  ride  or  walk  be  taken  on  Sun- 
day morning  no  store  will  be  seen  open,  no 
saloon  will  be  doing  business. 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  117 

In  Belfast  Sabbath  laws  are  actually  re- 
spected. The  saloons  are  allowed  to  open, 
however,  at  2  p.  m.  and  are  at  once  filled  with 
zealous  members  of  the  Grand  Army  of  Im- 
bibers. I  watched  the  mobilizing  process  for 
a  few  minutes  and  was  astonished  at  the 
alacrity  and  precision  displayed.  No  order 
was  given,  but  men  seemed  to  spring  up  from 
the  sidewalks  as  if  by  magic  and  to  converge 
on  the  bar  rooms  as  if  by  machinery.  It  was 
2  p.  m.  in  Belfast,  on  Sunday. 


XVIII.      THE   HOLY    HILLS   OF   ABMAGH. 

There  may  be  more  pleasing  combinations 
of  colors  than  green,  white  and  red,  even 
though  we  find  them  in  some  national  banners 
such  as  the  flags  of  Italy,  Bulgaria  and 
Mexico.  But  when  the  green  is  in  the 
rich  field,  and  the  white  is  the  bleach- 
ing linen,  and  the  red  is  the  brick  wall  of  the 
factory  where  hundreds  earn  their  daily  bread, 
they  appeal  to  both  sense  and  sentiment.  So 
it  is  again  from  Belfast  to  Portadown,  the  lat- 
ter a  prosperous  growing  community  ten 
thousand  strong,  about  twenty-five  miles  from 
the  metropolis  and  ten  miles  from  Armagh. 

Armagh  had  seemed  to  me  rather  like  a 
period  in  Church  History  than  a  place  on  the 
map.  The  name  has  a  far-away  sound  and 
is  o'ergrown  with  ecclesiastical  associations. 
Seizing  the  excuse  for  another  jaunting  car 
ride  I  engaged  my  jarvey,  a  husky  young  fel- 
low, broad  shouldered  and  full  cheeked,  the 
traditional  "broth  of  a  boy"  I  suppose,  but 
lacking  absolutely  the  traditional  sense  of 
humor.  He  was  about  as  serious  a  proposi- 
tion as  was  ever  proposed;  or  was  it  humor 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  119 

beyond  my  comprehension?  At  any  rate,  my 
quest  for  a  genuine  Irish  joke  was  fruitless. 
But  the  ride!  0,  that  was  grand.  The  road 
was  as  hard  as  a  miser's  heart  and  as  smooth 
as  ivory.  Ivy-grown  walls,  hawthorn  hedges, 
leafy  oaks,  gently  curving  hills  bedecked  with 
green  of  thick  grass  and  gold  of  grain,  pretty 
cottages,  nestling  villages,  sauntering  lads 
and  lasses,  and  red  jacketed  gallants  from  the 
garrison, — rural  peace,  evening  quiet,  and 
vernal  beauty  everywhere ! 

I  found  Armagh  to  be  a  quaint  old  town, 
with  helter-skelter  streets  at  steep  grades  and 
sharp  angles,  yet  with  a  grave  aspect  of  an- 
cient dignity.  As  everybody  is  supposed  to 
know,  Armagh  is  the  head  See  of  both  the 
Church  of  Ireland  and  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  in  Ireland.  As  the  home  of  two  Pri- 
mates, one  of  them  a  Cardinal,  it  is  highly 
favored  spot  in  the  eyes  of  Churchmen  today. 
Cardinal  Logue's  recent  visit  to  the  United 
States  was  a  widely  advertised  event  and  re- 
sulted in  enhancing  his  reputation  as  a  genial 
gentleman  and  popular  leader.  The  presence 
of  such  a  man  would  be  a  valuable  asset  to 
any  community  and  Armagh  is  happy  in  him. 
But  Armagh  is  more  especially  blessed  in  the 


120  AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE. 

memory  of  the  labors  there  of  the  greatest 
personality  in  all  Irish  history.  He  was  man- 
hood at  flood  tide,  zeal  at  fever  heat.  The 
world  has  seldom  known  a  better  man,  and 
such  men  belong  not  to  one  country  but  to 
the  world.  Irishmen  do  well  to  honor  him, 
others  do  not  well  in  leaving  him  unhonored. 
He  had  the  fibre  and  faith  of  St.  Paul  and 
St.  Peter,  and  his  name  is  worthy  of  association 
with  that  illustrious  list  in  the  eleventh  chapter 
of  Hebrews,  the  "Westminster  Abbey  of  the 
New  Testament."  His  was  the  high  poten- 
tiality of  courage  consecrated.  He  was  pure, 
gentle,  strong,  ambitious,  learned,  eloquent, 
relentless,  purposeful,  resourceful,  indefati- 
gable, bold,  brilliant,  diplomatic,  full  souled, 
heavenly  minded,  inspired, — and  he  captured 
Ireland  for  Christ. 

St.  Patrick  arrived  in  Ireland  in  432.  Tem- 
peramentally reverential,  the  natives  were 
stirred  by  the  fervid  proclamations  of  God's 
love  and  the  Savior's  sacrifice  and  abandoned 
their  Druid  altars  for  the  way  of  the  Cross. 
The  career  of  this  God-appointed  man  as  told 
in  varied  versions  stirs  the  blood,  and  storms 
the  batteries  of  indifference  and  selfishness. 
I  revere  him  not  as  the  patron  saint  of  Ireland 
for  the  patronage   of  saints  is  problematical, 


AROUND     THE      EMERALD      ISLE.  121 

but    as    the     foremost    missionary    since     the 
martyrdom  of  Paul. 

An  Irish  chieftain  gave  evidence  of  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  conversion  by  presenting  to  the 
holy  man  a  wide  circling  green  clad  hill  in  the 
very  heart  of  his  kingdom,  upon  which  to  es- 
tablish a  place  of  worship.  There  today,  the 
true  lineal  descendant  of  the  original,  stands 
the  old  Cathedral  of  Armagh.  It  has  never 
been  considered  an  architectural  rival  of 
Lincoln  or  Canterbury,  but  among  all  the 
churches  of  the  British  Isles  this  ancient 
sanctuary  bears  unique  and  positive  distinc- 
tion. It  is  cruciform  in  shape,  and  has  a  mas- 
sive tower  110  feet  high,  from  which  the 
steeple  has  been  removed.  The  iron  gate  of 
the  close  was  locked  when  I  arrived  before  it, 
but  a  few  inquiries  disclosed  the  abode  of  the 
care-taker,  whom  I  humbly  importuned  for  the 
privilege  of  admission.  He  opened  the  gate 
with  a  heavy  key  and  a  heavier  grunt.  He 
answered  all  questions  in  grunts.  Ho  grunted 
his  way  along  the  smooth  path  to  the  west 
door  of  the  church,  opened  the  door  and  pain- 
fully sank  into  a  chair  like  a  man  with  the 
rheumatism.  All  questions  were  answered  in 
monosyllabic  grunts.     He  was  a    paragon    of 


122  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

Irish  civility  uncivilized.  Alas,  again,  for 
those  fond  ideals  of  a  national  suavity,  for 
those  bubbling  springs  of  good  nature  that  re- 
fuse to  bubble.  I  was  free,  however,  to  roam 
about  nave,  aisles,  transepts,  and  choir,  to  note 
the  pointed  arches,  moulded  columns,  perpen- 
dicular windows,  memorials,  standards,  and 
effigies  of  illustrious  primates.  There  is  no 
silence  like  the  silence  of  the  sanctuary.  It 
seems  to  be  the  very  essence  of  sanctity,  the 
inner  soul  of  which  carved  stone  and  stained 
glass  is  the  corporeal  habiliment.  Such  silences 
are  more  eloquent  than  sermons.  Before  them 
irreverence  cows  abashed  and  ashamed.  They 
are  inarticulated  appeals  from  the  vast  in- 
finitudes of  Truth.  In  the  venerable  Cathe- 
dral on  old  Rath-daire  tender  messages  are  de- 
livered without  aid  of  preacher,  choir  or  or- 
gan.    Go  thou  and  listen. 

The  new  cathedral  over  which  Cardinal 
Logue  presides  is  also  lifted  up  on  high  and 
may  be  seen  from  a  great  distance.  The  ap- 
proach is  a  long  flight  of  steps  made  of  white 
limestone.  The  affect  is  like  a  Dore  illus- 
tration of  the  Apocalypse.  One  may  even  fancy 
the  hovering  angels  in  cloud  draperies  en- 
circling  the   twin   spires.     "Ara    Coeli"    the 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  123 

situation  is  appropriately  called.  I  ascended 
the  terraced  steps  and  stood  for  a  while  ad- 
miring the  graceful  spires  with  their  surmount- 
ing crosses  210  feet  above  me.  Entering  the 
Cathedral  I  was  at  once  impressed  with  the 
richness  of  the  interior  and  the  profuseness  of 
its  mosaics.  From  floor  to  ceiling  were 
mosaic  portrayals  of  Biblical  scenes,  with 
martyrs  and  Irish  saints  in  mural  multitudes. 
In  the  pulpit  ornamentation  St.  Patrick  and 
St.  Bridget  keep  company  with  the  evangel- 
ists. The  marble  altar  is  of  imposing  propor- 
tions and  exquisite  workmanship.  Behind  it 
is  a  marvelous  marble  screen  30  feet  wide,  36 
feet  high  upon  which  is  a  vivid  Crucifixion 
scene.  A  beautiful,  costly,  imposing  edifice  is 
the  Roman  Catholic  Cathedral  of  Armagh.  It 
was  commenced  in  1840,  and  was  consecrated  in 
1904  with  elaborate  ceremonies.  In  the  glitter 
of  its  marble,  in  all  the  shining  glory  of  its 
newness  it  shadows  forth  the  unfading  charm 
of  that  religion  brought  to  Erin  a  millennium 
and  a  half  ago  by  a  Gallic  zealot. 

Armagh  has  a  parable  in  its  two  cathe- 
drals, both  commanding  supreme  positions,  the 
one  venerable  with  an  honorable  old  age,  the 
other  mighty  in  a  fresh  strength — a  parable  of 


124  AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE. 

the  persistency  of  truth  however  opposed  or 
dimly  understood,  a  parable  of  the  re- 
juvenescence of  Christ's  Kingdom,  a  parable  of 
the  Kingdom's  sure  destiny  to  occupy  all  the 
hills  and  to  flood  all  the  valleys  with  the  light 
of  its  peace. 

"O  king,  there  is  indeed  a  flame  lighted  on 
yonder  hill  which  if  it  be  not  put  out  tonight 
will  never  be  quenched  in  Erin" — memorable 
words  recorded  of  the  Druid  priest  as  he 
watched  the  gleam  of  the  Paschal  fire  kindled 
by  St.  Patrick  and  his  little  band  of  mission- 
aries on  the  Hill  of  Slane.  On  Tara  Hill  a 
srreat  Dasan  festival  was  in  progress.  It  is  a** 
oft  told  story,  yet  well  worth  repeating,  of  the 
summoning  of  the  Christians  to  appear  before 
the  king,  and  of  St.  Patrick's  bravery  and  suc- 
cess in  proclaiming  his  propaganda,  making 
converts  on  the  spot,  and  then  the  long  long 
years  of  his  toils  and  travels,  and  reputed 
miracles,  until  on  a  certain  17th  of  March  he 
was  summoned  to  appear  before  the  King 
Eternal.  It  is  a  story  that  grows  vivid  in  the 
atmosphere  of  Armagh. 

I  have  seen  the  rainbow  in  the  high  heavens, 
I  have  seen  it  hanging  over  Niagara's  gorge, 
I  have  seen  it  in  the  dashing  spray  of  the  break- 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  125 

ing  wave.  I  shall  not  say  where  the  colors 
were  brightest,  but  everywhere  the  law  of  re- 
fraction is  the  same  and  where  the  rainbow  is 
there  light  must  be.  Superstition  has  done  its 
meanest  work  with  the  memory  of  St.  Pat- 
rick, but  amid  the  associations  of  Armagh  the 
splendor  of  the  clear  light  of  reality  is  upon 
it  and  lo,  the  curled  colors  of  a  refulgent  life. 
The  works  of  Patricius  do  follow  him. 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  known  asa"  lover 
of  lovely  words."  Lovely  deeds  are  lovelier. 
In  this  mood  of  appreciation  one  might  linger 
long  at  this  little  town  of  the  holy  hills,  and 
find  comfort  to  his  soul. 

Mention  could  be  made  too  of  the  library, 
a  most  excellent  one  with  over  20,000  volumes 
and  many  ancient  documents  of  value ;  the 
observatory,  the  seminary,  the  convent,  for 
Armagh  is  no  mean  city  in  the  number  of  its 
academic  advantages.  The  jarvey  was  particu- 
lar to  point  out  the  palace  of  the  Archbishop, 
an  elegant  residence  indeed  with  extensive  and 
beautiful  grounds  without,  handsome  furnish- 
ings and  rare  paintings  within.  A  selfish  man 
might  envy  the  Bishop  his  home  and  his 
honors. 

Two  miles  distant  is  ancient  Emania,  where 


126  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

for  centuries  before  the  dawn  of  the  Christian 
era  Ulster  kings  held  court,  and  which  was 
originally  established  by  the  good  queen  from 
whom  Armagh  takes  its  high  sounding  name. 
Many  other  places  and  things  there  are  in 
this  locality  of  uncommon  interest,  but  it  was 
not  for  me  to  dwell  among  their  charms.  The 
further  the  date  of  my  visit  to  Armagh  re- 
cedes, the  greater  the  joy  of  the  memory  of 
it — a  good  test  of  values. 


XIX.      WHERE   WINDS   THE  BOYNE. 

Drogheda,  on  the  Boyne  four  miles  from  the 
sea,  thirty-two  miles  from  Dublin,  two  and  a 
half  times  as  far  from  Belfast,  has  a  name 
highly  distinguished  in  Irish  History,  is  com- 
mercially important,  and  is  an  interesting 
place  to  visit.  Several  parliaments  have  been 
held  there.  There  Cromwell  butchered  his 
enemies  in  the  name  of  the  Lord.  At  the  be- 
ginning of  this  story  allusion  was  made  to 
Richard  II,  who  declared,  in  Shakespearian 
paraphrase,  "We  will  make  for  Ireland  pres- 
ently ; ' '  It  was  even  there  at  Drogheda  that  the 
proud  monarch  received  the  submission  of 
Irish  chiefs.  Long  before  that  the  alert  Nor- 
mans built  a  strong  bridge  over  the  Boyne  at 
that  strategic  point,  and  in  ante-Norman  days 
the  Danes  were  strongly  intrenched  in  the 
town.  One  has  a  right  to  expect  antiquities  at 
Drogheda.  They  are  there,  old  walls,  historic 
gates,  abbey  ruins,  et  cetera.  But  Drogheda 
is  no  funeral  urn.  There  are  great  viaducts, 
noble  bridges,  a  busy  harbor  with  well  laden 
ships  slipping  to  and  fro  in  the  ceaseless  shut- 
tle of  commerce. 


128  AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE. 

Those  Americans  who  plan  to  go  from  Dub- 
lin to  Belfast  at  a  jump,  thinking  there  is  noth- 
ing between,  may  be  helpless  victims  of  the 
nation's  jumping  habit,  else  it  is  clear  that 
their  judgment  has  jumped  the  track  of  reason. 
Yet,  with  apologies,  it  was  not  for  Drogheda's 
sake  primarily  that  I  had  included  the  city  in 
my  itinerary.  Drogheda  is  the  starting  point 
for  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  inspiring 
day  trips,  I  verily  believe,  in  all  the  world.  I 
am  sure  it  is  so  to  those  who  admire  natural 
scenery  characterized  by  an  appealing  rich- 
ness rather  than  by  awful  grandeur,  who  feel 
the  heart  throb  of  the  soil  once  wet  with  the 
blood  of  heroes,  and  who  appreciate  antiqui- 
ties that  make  the  most  ancient  memorials  of 
our  land  seem  modern  by  comparison — and 
this  not  in  the  misty  Orient  but  in  the  little 
green  island  that  helps  John  Bull  bear  the 
budget  of  his  mighty  empire. 

The  River  Boyne  is  not  remarkable  among 
rivers  for  width,  depth,  volume  or  length,  but 
it  is  a  pretty  stream  running  through  a  fertile 
valley.  It  is  about  seventy  miles  long,  and  in 
its  crystal  current  the  lively  salmon  flashes  and 
splashes,  often  jumping  clear  out  of  the  water. 
Queer,   skin   covered,    oval    shaped    boats    or 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  129 

coracles  of  the  most  primitive  fashion  are  still 
to  be  seen.  Practically  the  whole  course  of 
the  river  abounds  in  mythological,  legendary 
and  historic  associations.  The  very  name  of 
the  stream  commemorates  the  tragic  death  of  a 
princess,  beautiful  of  course,  who  was  drowned 
in  its  waters  nobody  knows  how  long  ago. 
They  called  her  Boinne. 

There  were  three  passengers  on  the  coach 
besides  myself  on  that  memorable  day — a 
serious  looking  Dublin  gentleman  in  knicker- 
bockers, accompanied  by  two  elderly  but 
active  ladies  intent  on  seeing  everything.  The 
courier  was  a  stolid  red  faced  individual,  who 
took  frequent  nap;s  and  who  possessed  a  con- 
siderable store  of  misinformation.  This  he 
dispensed  rather  sparingly  in  brief  responses 
to  our  more  or  less  intelligent  questions.  Ire- 
land is  not  a  land  of  sight-seeing  automobiles 
and  megaphone  lecturers,  else  we  might  have 
learned  more  things  that  were  not  so.  We 
alighted  first  near  the  Obelisk  which  commem- 
orates the  valor  of  General  Schomberg  at  the 
famous  Battle  of  the  Boyne.  It  stands  on  the 
north  bank  of  the  river  and  not  far  from  the 
scene  of  the  General's  death.  To  young  Ire- 
land the  Battle  of  the  Boyne  is  as  familiar  as 


130  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

is  Gettysburg  to  young  America.  It  was 
fought  in  1690  and  settled  the  fate  of  James 
II.  James  himself  was  present  during  the  bat- 
tle as  was  also  his  opponent  William  of 
Orange.  As  I  stood  upon  the  little  bridge 
facing  down  stream  in  the  direction  of  Drog- 
heda,  I  tried  to  fancy  the  events  of  that  awful 
day.  Upon  my  right  was  the  leafy  crest  of 
Donore  where  James  and  his  army  awaited 
the  combat.  Before  me  was  the  stream  whose 
shallows  were  forded  and  whose  waters  were 
crimsoned  during  the  struggle.  On  my  left 
was  Tullyallen  Hill  where  William  was  en- 
camped, and  the  glen  through  which  the  ex- 
citing charge  was  made.  O'er  such  scenes  do 
artists  dream.  On  both  sides  emerald  hills, 
the  river  a  silver  ribbon  between.  In  that  vale 
of  beauty,  and  in  the  golden  light  of  a  glorious 
July  day,  was  fought  the  Battle  of  the  Boyne. 
The  hills  smoked  and  flamed  in  the  fury  of 
conflict,  the  earth  trembled  beneath  the  roar 
of  artillery  and  the  rush  of  cavalry;  the  river 
swished  and  boiled  beneath  the  splashing  feet 
of  the  fighters,  and  the  cheers  of  the  valiant 
and  the  groans  of  the  fallen  rent  the  air.  With 
William  were  disciplined  forces — French, 
Dutch,    Irish,    English.     Calimotte    the     com- 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  131 

mander  of  the  Huguenots  fell.  Schomberg,  an 
aged  white-haired  veteran,  in  a  gallant  dash 
went  down  beneath  sabre  and  bullet.  Terrible 
terrible  are  the  incidents  of  war,  yet  glorious 
its  reward.  James,  outnumbered,  and  never 
renowned  for  courageous  leadership,  suddenly 
departed  for  Dublin  greatly  to  the  disgust  of 
his  Irish  officers.  The  Prince  of  Orange  was 
the  hero  and  victor  of  the  day,  and  a  Protestant 
Dutchman  retained  the  throne  of  England 
against  his  Catholic  adversary.  At  the  scene 
of  the  famous  battle  all  is  now  serene  and 
lovely,  charming  to  eye,  restful  to  mind,  grate- 
ful to  soul,  and  the  wonder  and  regret  is  that 
it  was  once  desecrated  by  the  foul  fiends  of 
carnage  and  strife. 

Not  to  enter  over  much  into  detail,  the  most 
distinct  and  pleasurable  impressions  of  that 
Boyne  Valley  ride  were  made  by  the  pictures- 
que ruins  of  Monasterboice  and  Mellifont 
Abbey,  the  tumuli  of  Dowth  and  Newgrange, 
the  boyhood  home  of  John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  the 
thick  foliage  and  arborial  paths  in  the  grounds 
of  Mr.  B.  R.  I.  Balfour,  through  which  we  were 
privileged  to  pass  and  where  we  met  a  plain 
looking  little  woman  declared  by  our  knowing 
guide  to  be  Lady  Balfour,  and  by  the  distant 


132  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

profiles  of  the  historic  hills  of  Slane  and  Tara. 
At  Monasterboice  I  climbed  the  steps  in  the 
old  Round  Tower,  which  is  about  110  feet 
high  and  broken  at  the  top.  It  has  stood  there 
for  a  thousand  years  and  more,  and  its  hoary 
walls  will  stand  for  a  thousand  years  to  come. 
Then  there  was  time  for  a  stroll  in  the  old  ceme- 
tery where  are  three  famous  old  Celtic  crosses, 
one  of  which  was  broken  by  Cromwell,  per- 
haps. The  other  two  are  the  best  examples  in 
Ireland.  They  are  27  and  15  feet  high  re- 
spectively. One  is  called  the  High  Cross,  the 
other  Muiredach's  Cross.  The  guide  in  a 
moment  of  sweet  confidence  informed  us  that 
these  crosses  were  six  thousand  years  old.  An 
astounding  bit  of  archaeology  which  found  im- 
mediate entry  in  the  note  book  of  one  of  the 
afore  mentioned  elderly  ladies.  The  crosses 
were  handsomely  carved  with  Biblical  and 
mythological  scenes,  now  so  worn  as  to  be 
hardly  decipherable.  The  Crucifixion,  the 
Last  Judgment,  the  Adoration  of  the  Wise  Men, 
Cain  and  Abel,  Adam  and  Eve  are  among  the 
familiar  portrayals.  Many  generations  have 
come  and  gone  since  the  days  of  the  munificent 
Muiredach.  The  storms  of  ten  centuries  have 
swirled  around  his  cross,  yet  green  grows  the 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  133 

grass  around  its  base,  birds  circle  and  sing 
above  it,  and  before  it  men  may  learn  some- 
thing of  the  art  and  faith  of  the  Irishman  of 
earlier  days,  and  behold  how  he  loved  his 
Lord,  his  land  and  his  soul. 

Mellifont  Abbey  is  also  a  sweet  morsel  to  the 
antiquarian.  It  was  the  first  Cistercian  Mon- 
astery established  in  Ireland,  and  was  for  sev- 
eral centuries  one  of  the  largest,  richest  and 
most  important  religious  centres  in  the  coun- 
try. It  was  beautifully  situated  on  the  bank 
of  the  Eiver  Mattock,  and  was  especially  fav- 
ored of  the  English  kings  before  the  monas- 
teries were  dissolved.  I  was  especially  at- 
tracted to  the  old  tower  known  as  the  gate 
house,  with  its  massive  walls  and  three  arches 
rising  one  above  the  other.  It  guards  the 
approach  to  the  other  ruins  as  though  de- 
termined to  maintain  its  dignity  though  robbed 
of  the  honors  and  emoluments  of  office. 
Just  beyond  are  the  meagre  remains  of  the 
church  and  abbey  buildings.  In  the  Chapter 
House  are  collected  sections  of  carved  stone 
work  and  pieces  of  tile  excavated  from  the 
ruins.  A  portion  of  the  old  tile  floor  has  been 
pieced  together  so  that  a  fairly  good  idea  of  its 
pattern  may  be  obtained.     This  Chapter  House 


134  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

must  have  been  an  exquisite  building  when 
new,  with  its  grouped  columns,  carved  capitals, 
graceful  arches,  splendid  tracery,  rich  windows 
and  groined  roof.  The  octagonal  Baptistry  is 
sufficiently  preserved  to  give  just  a  faint  sug- 
gestion of  the  original.  Mellifont,  still  true  to 
its  suggestive  name,  is  a  fountain  of  sweet  sur- 
misings  as  to  the  joys  and  triumphs  of  those 
who  laid  its  foundations,  built  and  beautified 
its  walls,  taught,  studied,  preached  and  wor- 
shipped in  its  sacred  halls,  sent  forth  streams 
of  comfort  and  evangelism  into  many  lands, 
and  now,  walking  not  amid  sad  ruins  but  in  the 
Eternal  City  of  God,  look  upon  everlasting 
temples  and  with  the  serene  steppings  of  the 
glorified  march  ever  upward  upon  streets  of 
gold.  Mellifont  lies  low  in  the  dust  but  still 
rings  with  the  music  of  the  unconquerable. 

Close  by  the  ruins  I  found  a  cleanly  cottage 
wherein  it  became  my  privilege  to  be  served 
with  luncheon.  There  were  fried  eggs  with 
hearts  of  gold,  marmalade,  bread,  butter  and 
tea.  It  was  a  feast  for  kings.  Tea  tastes  bet- 
ter in  Ireland,  I  imagine,  than  anywhere  else 
in  the  world.  A  pot  of  tea,  a  loaf  of  bread  and 
a  dish  of  marmalade  —  more  than  once 
or     twice     did     I     sit     down     to     a     table 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  135 

thus  provided  and  found  a  satisfaction 
often  missed  at  an  eight  course  dinner. 
And  when  the  loaf  is  accompanied  by 
two  or  three  other  loaves,  each  of  a  different 
kind,  and  when  the  knife  is  sharp  and  the  con- 
sumer cuts  his  own  slice,  and  when  the  marma- 
lade is  abundant  or  gives  place  to  strawberry 
jam,  and  the  teapot  holds  three  or  four  cups 
of  Lipton's  best,  and  a  man  has  a  traveler's 
appetite  and  an  honest  digestion,  why  then,  I 
say,  who  cares  to  think  of  filet  of  sole  or  of 
capon,  of  flavored  ices,  or  of  choice  cheeses  long 
of  name  and  strong  of  flavor?  The  little  meal 
at  Mellifont  was  served  by  a  kindly  woman 
assisted  by  a  young  girl  as  modest  in  manner 
as  she  was  pretty  of  face.  The  good  woman 
of  the  house  engaged  freely  in  conversation 
and  afterwards  accompanied  me  about  among 
the  ruins  of  the  abbey,  taking  me  into  the 
Chapter  House  and  explaining  point  after 
point  as  we  passed  along.  Before  we  parted 
the  conversation  reverted  to  herself,  and  she 
told  me  of  some  of  the  hardships  of  her  life 
and  of  the  bereavements  she  had  suffered  and  of 
the  struggle,  the  bitter,  long  struggle  against 
poverty.  It  was  no  suppliant's  plea  for  alms, 
but  an  honest  tale  of  honest  trouble.     There  is 


136  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

a  fraternity  of  sorrow  and  this  poor  woman 
knew  its  password  and  wore  its  badge.  Ah, 
but  she  was  hopeful  too,  and  responded  to  the 
little  word  of  sympathy,  and  while  we  talked 
not  of  creeds,  our  theologies  agreed  in  the 
certitude  of  God's  infinite  love,  and  in  the 
grasp  of  the  glory  bye  and  bye  to  be  revealed. 
It  is  one  of  the  tender  memories  of  my  Irish 
journey,  that  troubled  soul  with  tear  dimmed 
eyes  confiding  her  woes  to  a  stranger.  We 
bade  each  other  farewell  over  there  among  the 
crumbled  stones  of  old  Mellifont,  with  mutual 
assurances  of  a  faith  that  looks  far  beyond  all 
earthly  care  to  that  bright  home  where  dwells 
the  everlasting  Father  of  us  all. 

The  thought  of  actually  invading  the  sepul- 
chres of  those  doughty  kings  of  Tara  who 
ruled  in  Ireland  long  before  the  advent  of  St. 
Patrick  had  provoked  anticipations  of  the  unu- 
sual and  the  uncanny.  These  anticipations 
were  fully  realized  at  the  tumulus  of  Dowth, 
and  a  little  later  at  that  of  Newgrange.  The 
tombs  belong  evidently  to  a  very  ancient  and 
extensive  royal  cemetery  as  a  score  of  them 
have  been  discovered  and  explored.  We  were 
enjoying  the  charms  of  the  rich  landscape 
when  the  coach  came  to  an  unexpected  stop. 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  137 

We  alighted  and  climbed  over  a  stile  into  the 
field,  an  ordinary  pasture  lot  apparently,  bulg- 
ing into  a  conical  hill.  Here  we  were  met  by  a 
young  girl  who  gave  us  each  a  candle  and 
conducted  us  along  by  the  edge  of  the  field  to 
an  opening  in  the  ground,  walled  with  stone 
and  provided  with  an  iron  ladder.  It  was  like 
going  down  into  an  old  well.  Not  being  accus- 
tomed to  old  wells  and  tombs,  and  having  no 
special  fondness  for  dampness  and  darkness,  I 
cannot  honestly  say  that  I  enjoyed  the  sensa- 
tion with  any  large  degree  of  enjoyment,  no 
more  than  one  can  be  expected  to  find  actual 
pleasure  in  the  Catacombs  or  in  those  horrible 
burial  vaults  beneath  the  Church  of  the  Capu- 
chins at  Rome,  though  impelled  by  curiosity 
and  interest  to  visit  them.  We  edged  our  way 
along  a  narrow  passage  formed  by  immense 
stones,  great  boulders  they  are,  long  and 
narrow  and  set  on  end,  and  supporting  the 
rough  flat  stones  forming  the  roof  of  the 
passage.  Thence  we  came  to  an  almost  circular 
chamber  about  nine  feet  in  diameter,  and 
eleven  feet  high,  and  having  recesses  on  three 
sides.  The  stones  forming  the  sides  and  roof 
of  this  chamber  are  singularly  marked  with 
lines,  angles,  spirals  and  circles,  the  meaning  of 


138  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

which  is  not  now  known.  There  are  other 
passages  and  cells  in  that  unromantic  mound 
whose  history  if  known  would  reveal  many  a 
romance.  The  dim  candle  light  flings  dis- 
torted shadows  about  and  the  blackness  of 
niche  and  recess  makes  more  spectral  the  illu- 
mined rock  pillars.  Emerging  from  the  gloom 
I  concluded  that  Heaven  is  sunshine  and  ozone. 
Larger  and  yet  more  interesting  is  the 
tumulus  of  Newgrange.  In  this  case  the 
entrance  is  made  directly  into  the  side  of  the 
hill  and  through  a  long,  narrow  and  wet 
passageway  that  makes  the  performance  im- 
possible to  any  but  the  young,  the  slim,  and  the 
daring.  My  companions  remained  outside.  A 
slip  of  a  girl,  whose  duty  it  is  evidently  to 
guard  the  entrance  and  furnish  candles,  acted 
as  my  guide,  and  we  squeezed  in  between  the 
damp  columns  and  along  the  slimy  earth  to 
the  vaulted  central  chamber.  The  plan  is 
similar  but  the  formation  more  regular  and 
the  inscriptions  more  plentiful  than  at  Dowth. 
The  roof  is  about  twenty  feet  high,  and  in  each 
of  the  recesses  is  a  hollowed  sacrificial  stone. 
Again  the  weird  shadows  and  the  silence. 
Again  the  mysterious  markings,  the  rugged, 
aged  rocks  holding  back  the  tremendous  weight 


AROUND     THE      EMERALD     ISLE.  139 

above  them.  0,  the  terror,  and  the  joy  of 
their  strength !  The  world  ontside  seemed  so 
far  far  away;  and  the  ancient  times  so  very, 
very  near  and  real ;  and  centuries  so  short,  the 
pomp  and  pride  of  kings  so  empty,  their 
thrones  so  transitory,  the  big  boasting 
of  mortals  so  ludicrous,  the  tomb  so 
inevitable ;  the  destinies  of  races,  nations, 
families  and  men  so  inscrutable,  earth  so  cruel 
and  so  kind,  history  so  full  of  gloom  and 
glory — such  a  rushing  and  tumbling  of 
thoughts  at  Newgrange!  It  is  a  strangely 
fascinating  spot.  An  ordinary  wooded  hill 
as  seen  from  the  road,  yet  it  held  in  its  embrace 
that  most  precious  yet  most  valueless  of 
things — the  dust  of  princes;  also  many  objects 
of  artistic  and  monetary  worth  to  gratify  the 
vanity  of  the  reigning  family,  and  later  to  ex- 
cite the  savage  cupidity  of  the  ravaging  Danes. 
So  the  tomb  was  honored,  then  rifled,  then  for- 
gotten, then  discovered,  and  is  today  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  antiquities  in  the  world. 
To  have  penetrated  that  mass  of  rock,  to  have 
stood  for  a  few  minutes  in  that  dark  sepul- 
chral chamber  is  to  have  formed  an  indissol- 
uble comradeship  with  antiquity. 


XX.      DOING  DUBLIN. 

Ireland  may  be  roughly  pictured  as  an  open 
fan  with  Dublin  as  its  pivot.  That  the  pivot 
points  toward  England  is  a  fact  of  tremendous 
significance.  Centuries  ago  a  long  arm  was 
stretched  across  the  Irish  Sea  and  an  iron  hand 
gripped  the  fan  with  fingers  that  know  not 
how  to  relax.  However  benevolent  or  malevo- 
lent the  purpose  may  have  been,  the  results 
constitute  a  series  of  incidents  unparalleled 
for  human  interest  and  dramatic  surprises  in 
all  the  world's  history.  If  it  be  true  that  the 
spirits  of  mortals  linger  in  the  earth's  atmos- 
phere for  millions  of  years  after  death,  con- 
scious always  of  the  cumulative  influence  of 
their  deeds  when  in  the  flesh,  then  of  all 
spirits  most  miserable  must  be  that  of  Dermot 
M'Murrogh.  Crafty,  perfidious,  evil,  traitor- 
ous, resentful,  selfish,  quarrelsome,  ambitious, 
bitter,  yet  bold  and  brainy  withal  was  M'Mur- 
rogh, the  awful  Irishman  who  led  that  crowd  of 
Anglo-Norman  knights  and  freebooters  to  the 
invasion  of  his  own  country  to  avenge  his 
wrongs  by  wronging  the  twenty  generations 
of  Irishmen  that  have  lived  since  his  day.    The 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  141 

gallant  rascal,  so  the  story  goes,  once  persuaded 
the  beautiful  Devorgilla  to  elope  with  him,  the 
crime  being  accentuated  by  the  fact  that 
Devorgilla  was  the  wife  of  O'Ruarc,  a  rival 
prince.  Well,  it  is  a  long  story  with  the  com- 
plications of  a  Corellian  romance,  encompass- 
ing the  return  of  the  beautiful  one  and  her 
consecration  to  a  life  of  self-abnegation  and 
wonderful  works  of  charity  and  philanthropy, 
and  dealing  with  the  defeat  of  M'Murrogh 
after  a  long  struggle,  and  explaining  why  he 
left  Ireland  with  terrible  vengeance  in  his  soul 
and  returned,  to  the  great  discomfiture  of  his 
enemies  and  the  ultimate  ruin  of  his  country. 
Compared  to  him,  Benedict  Arnold  and  Aaron 
Burr  were  mere  tyros  in  the  arts  of  treachery. 

It  was  in  the  year  1168  and  at  the  time  of 
year  when  the  arbutus  and  the  rhododendron 
were  about  to  blaze  forth  in  their  annual  res- 
urrection glory,  that  the  first  detachment  of 
M'Murrogh 's  foreign  accomplices  made  a  land- 
ing on  the  Wexford  coast.  Others  followed, 
and  shortly  we  read  of  Dermot  M'Murrogh 
claiming  not  only  his  former  kingship  of 
Leinster  but  the  sovereignty  of  all  Ireland. 
Modest  man!  But  soon  came  the  valiant 
Maurice  Fitzgerald  and  the  adventurous  Fitz- 


142  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

Stephen  and  Stronglow.  Then  ensued  the  fall 
of  Waterford,  the  march  on  Dublin,  the  ruth- 
less slaughter  of  inhabitants,  and  Dublin  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  descendants  of  William  the 
Conqueror.  That  was  in  1171.  The  king  of 
England  crossed  the  channel  in  October  of  the 
same  year,  with  his  bewildering  armada  of  four 
hundred  ships,  his  illustrious  knights  and 
trained  soldiers,  and  the  glittering  pomp  of  a 
rich  and  powerful  monarch.  Henry  estab- 
lished his  court  and  palace  at  Dublin.  Dublin 
became  the  centre  and  stronghold  of  the 
English  influence  in  Ireland,  and  Dublin, 
though  not  the  largest  nor  the  most  beautiful, 
is  today  the  most  interesting  and  impressive 
city  of  the  country.  These  outstanding  facts 
of  history  seem  to  be  luminous  with  a  new 
significance  as  one  walks  the  streets  of  the 
great  metropolis,  and  Dublin  is  intelligible  only 
when  studied  in  their  light.  The  Shakespeare 
biography  has  been  humorously  characterized 
as  an  "Eiffel  Tower  of  artificiality"  made  up  of 
so  many  guesses  and  perhapses  and  may-have- 
beens.  Dublin,  on  the  contrary,  has  a  history 
as  solid  as  the  pyramids  and  it  may  be  read  in 
its  stones,  castles,  bridges,  monuments*  mu- 
seums, cathedrals,  and  churches.     It  is  a  gray 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  143 

old  town,  yet  with  its  parks  and  many  places  of 
amusement  is  the  gayest  of  all  Irish  cities.  It 
has  its  quota  of  criminals,  of  course,  and  the 
observer  of  night  scenes  upon  the  street  will 
notice  with  disgust  evidences  of  immorality  to 
be  witnessed  in  no  other  community  in  Ireland. 
Dublin  is  divided  into  two  parts  by  the  River 
Liffey.  Some  noble  bridges  span  the  river. 
The  heart  of  the  city  is  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
famous  O'Connell  Bridge.  The  structure  is 
itself  an  object  of  admiration,  seeming  to  be  a 
continuation  of  Sackville  Street,  154  feet 
wide,  and  brilliantly  lighted  with  three  rows 
of  lamps.  It  offers  an  incomparable  view  of 
the  river  walls  and  docks,  and  within  sight  of 
it  are  some  of  the  most  renowned  avenues  and 
buildings  of  the  city.  No  matter  where  I  went 
I  naturally  and  inevitably  returned  to  the 
O'Connell  Bridge,  and  from  it  I  could  go  di- 
rectly to  any  desired  point.  It  is  the  kind  of  a 
place  that  a  stranger  soon  learns  to  love,  for 
verily  an  unfamiliar  city  is  a  mighty  mystery, 
a  labyrinth  with  no  golden  cord  to  help 
one  through  the  maze,  a  jigsaw  puzzle 
not  quickly  put  together.  The  Arc  de 
Triomphe  of  Paris,  Westminister  of  Lon- 
don,   St.  Mark's    of    Venice     at    once     offer 


144  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

proprietary  rights  to  the  stranger  within  the 
city  gates,  and  the  reciprocal  sense  of  owner- 
ship is  his  temporary  salvation.  Of  such  a 
kind  is  the  quick  affection  for  O'Connell's 
Bridge,  Dublin. 

Northward,  or  nearly  so,  runs  the  broadest 
and  best  thoroughfare  of  the  city,  Sackville 
Street,  with  Nelson's  Monument  and  the  Post 
Office  but  three  squares  distant.  From  that 
monument  the  tramway  routes  radiate  to  all 
parts  of  the  city,  and  Dublin  is  the  best  "tram- 
wayed"  city  in  the  world.  In  the  opposite  di- 
rection lies  Westmoreland  Street  with  the 
Bank  of  Ireland  and  Trinity  College  within 
sight.  Westward  from  College  Green  runs 
Dame  Street,  leading  to  the  Castle  and  the 
City  Hall;  while  continuing  southward  is 
Grafton  Street,  where  it  is  claimed  that  more 
business  is  done  to  the  square  inch  than  in  any 
street  in  the  Kingdom,  and  through  which  is 
reached  St.  Stephen's  Green,  which  in  turn  is 
but  a  square  distant  from  the  National  Mu- 
seum and  the  National  Library. 

The  places  thus  quickly  mentioned  are  of 
sufficient  importance  and  interest  to  occupy 
many  days  of  sight-seeing  and  would  furnish 
many  memorable  impressions  were  Dublin  con- 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.        -      145 

fined  to  these  limits.  My  own  rapid  investiga- 
tions were  carried  on  by  the  constant  use  of 
tramways,  with  a  day's  assistance  of  the  coach 
and  courier  from  the  ubiquitous  Cook's.  It 
was  on  that  particular  day  that  I  visited  St. 
Patrick's,  an  ancient  and  honorable  institu- 
tion sharing  cathedral  honors  with  the  more 
ancient  Christ  church.  St.  Patrick's  is  the 
better  known,  however,  because  it  once  had  a 
brilliant  lunatic  for  its  Dean.  Jonathan  Swift 
was  not  very  long  on  piety,  nor  was  he  short 
on  satire  and  he  shot  his  shafts  at  such 
shining  marks  that  he  achieved  a  daz- 
zling reputation  among  the  literateurs  and 
lampooners  of  his  country.  Fame  has 
marked  him  as  one  of  the  biggest  and  brain- 
iest of  Irishmen  with  the  twists  and  kinks  of 
a  crazy  man.  He  lies  buried  beneath  the  floor 
of  the  cathedral  by  the  side  of  the  saintly 
"Stella,"  whom  he  so  highly  exalted  and  yet 
so  cruelly  wronged.  The  little  bit  of  brass 
that  marks  their  resting  place  excites  more 
general  interest  than  anything  else  in  the 
cathedral.  Yet  St.  Patrick's  is  Ireland's 
Westminster.  It  has  monuments  and  memo- 
rials galore,  celebrating  the  virtuous  and  the 
valorous.    Sir  Benjamin  Guinness,  the  brewer, 


146  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

is  fixed  in  bronze  and  thus  durably  estab- 
lished occupies  a  seat  of  honor  just  outside, 
between  the  south  door  and  transept.  Enor- 
mous gifts  were  made  to  the  cathedral  by  Mr. 
Guinness,  while  Mr.  Roe,  the  distiller,  was  the 
chief  modern  benefactor  of  Christ  church. 
There  is  a  passage  of  Scripture  admonishing 
us  to  try  the  spirits.  It  is  well  done  in  Dublin. 
There  is  now  an  overwhelming  rush  of  recol- 
lections as  I  think  of  that  gray  old  town  on 
the  Liffey.  The  Castle  has  a  share  of  gloomi- 
ness as  befits  the  seat  of  government  for  quite 
seven  centuries.  There  is  nothing  imposing 
in  its  appearance,  but  its  gates,  courts,  tow- 
ers, halls  and  State  apartments  are  suggestive 
of  a  romantic  history,  while  the  administra- 
tive offices,  police  headquarters  and  armory 
suggest  the  mechanics  of  government.  The 
Castle  was  originally  a  fortress  flanked  by  four 
towers,  one  of  which  is  still  to  be  recognized 
in  the  Eecord  Tower.  The  chapel,  built  in 
1814,  is  a  Gothic  building  of  Irish  limestone 
rather  curiously  decorated  with  busts  of  the 
Virgin  Mary,  Brian  Boru,  St.  Patrick,  St. 
Peter,  Dean  Swift,  and  the  heads  of  the  Eng- 
lish kings.  Visitors  are  courteously  shown 
about  the  Castle,  and  of  course  no  one  would 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  147 

think  of  omitting  it  from  the  itinerary.  I  was 
especially  interested  in  the  portraits  of  the 
Viceroys,  a  long  procession  of  them  with  Lord 
Cornwallis  at  the  head  of  the  column. 

Next  in  this  roll  of  recollections  I  see  a 
noble  Round  Tower;  not  an  ancient  one  in 
ruins,  but  modern,  entire,  graceful.  It  stands 
in  a  circular  plot  in  the  Prospect  Cemetery  at 
Glasnevin,  and  beneath  it  are  the  remains  of 
Daniel  O'Connell.  G-lasnevin  is  a  Dublin 
suburb.  Well  does  that  monument  speak  of 
the  illustrious  dead  beneath.  A  lofty  minded 
man  and  a  well  rounded  man  was  he.  O'Con- 
nell an  American  would  have  graced  the  Sen- 
ate. O'Connell,  a  German,  might  have  been 
Chancellor.  O'Connell,  a  Protestant  English- 
man, would  not  have  been  unequal  tu  the  de- 
mands of  the  Premiership.  But  O  'Connell  was 
a  Catholic  Irishman  loyal  to  church  and  to 
country,  Member  of  Parliament,  able  advocate, 
gifted  orator,  one  of  the  manliest  of  men,  one 
of  the  fairest  of  fighters.  "The  Uncrowned 
Monarch"  they  admiringly  called  him,  and 
"Father  of  his  Country,"  for  to  his  broad 
genius  and  unquenchable  zeal  is  due  the 
emancipation  of  Catholics  in  Ireland.  To 
all  who  love  liberty  for  liberty's  sake  0 'Con- 
nell 's  grave  is  Mecca. 


148  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

Another  Irishman  of  great  fame  is  buried  in 
a  similar  plot  but  a  short  distance  away,  a 
plot  still  awaiting  its  monumental  shaft.  Feel- 
ings of  regret  and  pity  are  aroused  at  that 
grave.  Alas  for  the  near  successes  that  have 
culimated  in  woful  failure  and  shame!  It  is 
the  grave  of  Charles  Stewart  Parnell.  He  had 
his  share  of  anxiety  and  agony.  By  dint  of 
devotion  and  ability  he  rose  to  prominence  and 
supremacy,  a  leader  great  in  the  confidence  of 
the  people  and  in  the  consciousness  of  the  jus- 
tice of  his  cause.  With  his  endorsement  and 
under  his  presidency  the  Land  League  of 
thirty  years  ago  assumed  giant  proportions. 
His  visit  to  America  and  his  appeal  for  aid 
brought  over  three  hundred  thousand  dollars 
to  the  work.  He  suffered  imprisonment  for  a 
time  and  thus  won  the  halo  of  heroism. 
He  was  the  most  capable  leader,  probably,  the 
Irish  party  in  the  House  of  Commons  has  ever 
had.  Then  scandal  did  its  dreadful  work,  and 
Parnell  died  in  defeat  and  disgrace.  Let  us 
write  it  as  an  axiom,  that  to  be  politically 
great,  one  must  be  personally  good.  The  tree 
rotten  at  the  core  may  preserve  for  a  time  its 
strength  of  branch  and  beauty  of  leaf  but  its 
doom  is  written.     How  terrible    the    devasta- 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  149 

tions  of  the  white  ants  of  Africa  as  described 
by  Henry  Drummond!  He  tells  us  that  "one 
may  never  see  the  insect ;  but  his  ravages  con- 
front one  at  every  turn."  White  or  black  the 
secret  sin  is  a  gnawing  insect.  By  it  the  giant 
is  robbed  of  his  giantship.  History  teems 
with  awful  examples.  Character  crumbles, 
reputation  shrivels,  ambition  totters,  hope  de- 
parts, the  sanctuary  is  profaned.  It  is  easy 
to  moralize  at  Glasnevin! 

Phoenix  Park  contains  1,752  acres.  For  this 
valuable  information  we  may  credit  the  guide 
books.  One  does  not  count  the  acres  on  his 
first  visit,  but  he  will  be  sufficiently  impressed 
with  the  size  of  the  Park  if  he  takes  the  two 
mile  ride  from  Castleknock  Gate  to  the  main 
entrance  as  it  was  my  privilege  to  do.  The 
Zoological  Gardens  are  extensive  and  contain 
a  splendid  collection.  The  Wellington  obelisk, 
205  feet  high,  a  monument  in  honor  of  the 
great  Duke,  reminded  me  that  Wellington  was 
Dublin  born.  The  beautifully  situated  residence 
of  the  Lord  Lieutenant  reminded  me  of  the 
fact  that  the  honorable  gentleman  fortunate 
enough  to  occupy  that  position  is  a  much  bet- 
ter paid  officer  than  the  President  of  the 
United  States.     He  receives   a  hundred  thou- 


150  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

sand  dollars  per  annum,  plus — I  do  not  know 
just  how  large  that  plus  may  be  but  from 
what  I  have  heard  of  houses,  servants,  equip- 
ages, entertainments,  etc.,  the  plus  must  be  as 
much  as  the  entire  amount  allowed  to  our 
President  as  remuneration  for  his  distinguished 
services.  Lord  and  Lady  Aberdeen  are  both 
estimable  persons,  however,  and  as  it  was  their 
prerogative  to  occupy  the  Viceregal  Lodge  at 
the  time  of  my  visit  I  was  not  disposed  to  envy 
them  their  good  fortune.  Nearly  opposite  the 
Lodge,  my  attention  was  called  to  an  indenta- 
tion in  the  roadway.  It  was  shaped  like  the 
letter  X  and  was  apparently  dug  out  with  a 
blunt  instrument  or  stick.  It  would  have  ex- 
cited no  comment  whatsoever  had  it  not  been 
designated  as  the  spot  where  a  shocking 
tragedy  was  enacted  on  the  sixth  day  of  May 
1882.  On  that  day  Lord  Frederick  Cavendish 
arrived  in  Dublin  to  begin  his  labors  as  the 
Chief  Secretary  of  Ireland.  He  was  walking 
with  Under  Secretary  Burke  when  they  were 
suddenly  attacked  and  cruelly  murdered.  It 
was  a  fiendish  crime,  repudiated  by  Parnell 
and  the  Irish  party  in  whose  interests  it  was 
ostensibly  committed.  After  these  twenty- 
seven  years  it  would  seem  as  though  that    X 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  151 

might  be  allowed  to  disappear.  Its  preserva- 
tion will  probably  pass  into  the  long  list  of 
peculiar  traditions  tenaciously  maintained  in 
the  land  of  the  shamrock.  The  ready  imagina- 
tion of  the  Celt  may  yet  embellish  the  plain 
tale  with  weird  and  fantastic  incidents,  and 
the  grandmother  of  the  twenty-fifth  century 
may  recite  to  the  gaping  children  the  story  of 
the  two  terrible  giants,  who  seeking  to  en- 
slave the  country  were  miraculously  cleft  by  a 
flaming  sword  let  down  from  Heaven  by  an 
avenging  angel;  all  of  which  may  be  clearly 
proven  by  the  ineffaceable  X  in  Phoenix  Park. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  more  consonant  with  the 
characteristics  of  Irish  superstition  to  describe 
the  Devil  reaching  up  through  the  earth  and 
dragging  the  offenders  down  to  Hell.  The 
Devil  is  such  a  familiar  personage  in  Irish  folk 
lore.  With  this  version  the  X  would  become 
the  scar  resulting  from  the  descent  of  Satan 
and  his  victims  to  the  nether  regions.  Who 
could  gainsay  such  evidence? 

Trinity  College,  Dublin,  was  founded  in 
1591.  Necessarily  it  has  a  history  dignified 
and  honorable  after  the  fashion  of  academic 
institutions.  I  am  not  now  concerned  to  recount 
the  interesting  features  of  that  history,  neither 


152  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

to  glow  over  the  alluring  list  of  famous  alumni, 
nor  yet  to  describe  the  grounds  and  buildings. 
Most  vividly  do  I  recall  the  visit  to  the  Library 
of  the  college,  and  particularly  two  objects 
therein  contained.  Not  that  they  are  the  most 
important  of  all  the  rare  and  wonderful  things 
to  be  seen  within  the  classic  shades,  but 
simply  that  they  happened  especially  to  arouse 
my  curiosity.  Let  it  be  understood  that  Trin- 
ity College  Library  is  great  among  the  libraries 
of  the  world,  possessing  a  magnificent  collec- 
tion of  books  and  manuscripts — nearly  300,000 
of  the  one  and  over  2000  of  the  other.  It  is 
over  300  years  old.  It  has  valuable  Egyptian, 
Greek  and  Latin  manuscripts.  The  objects  to 
which  I  refer  are  the  Book  of  Kells  and  the 
harp  of  Brian  Boru.  There  is  a  question 
concerning  the  Boruan,  (or  should  I  say 
Brianian?)  ownership  of  that  harp,  never- 
theless it  looks  as  though  it  might  have  been 
the  property  of  the  great  king.  That  is  as 
near  authentication  as  some  things  ever  get. 
It  is  not  the  kind  of  a  harp  we  are  accustomed 
to  see — the  huge  golden  instrument  as  large  as 
the  performer.  If  Brian  ever  played  it  he 
probably  held  it  in  his  lap,  and  the  music, 
however  sweet,  was  of  a  very  primitive  order. 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  153 

It  represents  concretely  and  pathetically  the 
national    music    of    a    former    dispensation,  a 
melody  that  brought  courage  to  the  heart  of 
the  soldier,  comfort  to  the  court  of  the  king. 
That  was  before  the  days  of  Handel,  Beetho- 
ven, Bach,  Mozart,  and  Wagner,  but  the  sweet 
and  simple  strains  of  the  harp  strings  meant 
more  to  the  Ireland  of  the  olden  time  than 
operas,  oratorios,  fugues  and  concertos  mean  to 
most  of  us.    The  quaint  little  instrument  with 
richly  carved  and  ornamented  frame  expressed 
what  words  could  not  express  of  the  heart's 
hope,    affection,    pride;    expressed   in    elegant 
phrases  the  genius  of  the  race.     Emblazoned 
on  the  flag    of    Erin    it    enkindles    today  the 
holiest     passion     of     patriotism— a     beautiful 
symbol  of  a  noble  memory.    So  the  interest  in 
Brian   Boru's   harp   was   largely   sentimental. 
But  as  for  the  Book  of  Kells,  it  requires  no 
pluming  of  the  imagination,  nor  yet  an  artist's 
eye  to  value  its  beauty.    There  it  is,  "the  most 
beautiful  book  in  the  world,"  a  manuscript  of 
the    Four    Gospels,    dating    from    the    eighth 
century.    It  is  the  work  of  scholars  and  artists 
surely,  for  its  lettering  and  illuminations  are 
such    as    to    challenge    comparison    with    any 
similar    production   in    existence.      There    are 


154  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

several  towns  called  Kells  in  Ireland,  but  the 
Kells  in  County  Meath,  once  the  home  of  St. 
Columba,  is  assured  of  immortal  fame  by  this 
exquisite  memorial  of  Christian  art  already 
more  than  a  thousand  years  old.  Kells  was 
widely  celebrated  at  one  time  as  an  ecclesias- 
tical and  literary  center,  and  this  specimen  of 
its  advancement  is  an  object  of  universal 
interest. 

Dublin's  intellectuality  is  not  all  confined 
to  her  great  and  honored  University.  In  a  few 
minutes  after  leaving  the  college  entrance,  I 
stood  on  Kildare  Street  looking  through  an- 
other entrance  at  a  splendid  group  of  buildings 
occupying  three  sides  of  a  quadrangle.  An 
imposing  monument  in  honor  of  Queen  Vic- 
toria and  surmounted  by  her  statue  marks  the 
center  of  the  space.  On  my  left  was  the 
National  Library  and  on  my  right  was  the 
National  Museum  of  Science  and  Art.  These 
two  buildings  are  less  than  twenty  years  old, 
while  Leinster  Hall,  at  the  further  side  of  the 
quadrangle,  was  built  in  1745.  It  is  idow  used 
by  the  Royal  Dublin  Society.  Further  back, 
one  on  each  side  of  Leinster  Lawn,  are  the 
Museum  of  Natural  History  and  the  National 
Gallery  of  Ireland.     Here  are  gathered  inval- 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  155 

uable  collections  of  books,  antiquities,  paint- 
ings, portraits,  specimens,  curios,  etc.,  hardly 
excelled,  if  equalled,  in  any  other  city  in 
Europe.  In  the  National  Museum  I  found 
myself  tarrying  before  the  case  containing  the 
shrine  of  St.  Patrick's  tooth.  Strange  that 
any  man's  tooth  should  be  deemed  worthy  of 
enshrinement.  This  is  the  only  one  on  record, 
probably.  Its  peculiar  title  to  lasting  honors 
arises  from  the  fact  that  it  was  knocked  from 
the  mouth  of  the  patron  saint  when  he  hap- 
pened to  fall,  one  unpropitious  day,  on  the 
steps  of  his  church  at  Armagh.  His  saintliness 
must  have  been  of  the  toothsome  variety,  for 
the  dislodged  ivory  was  tenderly  preserved 
and  in  later  years  deposited  in  an  elaborately 
wrought  metal  box,  now  grown  dull  and  dis- 
figured, but  retaining  evidences  abundant  of 
its  original  beauty  of  design  and  costliness  of 
material.  Still  older  is  the  Shrine  of  St. 
Patrick's  Bell,  a  revered  example  of  Celtic 
metal  work  and  ornamentation  made  for  the 
bell  once  used  by  St.  Patrick,  and  preserved 
for  centuries  at  Armagh.  The  bell  is  also  on 
exhibition,  the  oldest  Christian  curio  of  them 
all.  Then  there  is  the  Cross  of  Cong,  made  of 
oak,  copper,  gold  and  jewels,  and  containing, 


156  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

it  is  said,  a  portion  of  the  Cross  of  Calvary.  Of 
such  interesting  and  suggestive  character  are 
the  relics  gathered  at  the  Museum,  and  their 
name  is  legion. 

The  forty  acre  Guiness  brewery  is  all  the 
more  conspicuous  in  Dublin  because  Dublin 
is  not  conspicuously  an  industrial  city.  It  is 
without  question  the  greatest  concern  of  its 
kind  in  the  world,  perfect  in  equipment,  vast 
in  extent,  frictionless  in  system,  multitudinous 
in  departments,  representing  millions  in  invest- 
ment, generous  in  dividends.  In  general  man- 
agement, in  the  high  character  of  its  owners, 
in  the  philanthropies  aided  by  its  profits,  in 
the  dignity  of  its  age  and  the  quality  of  its 
product,  it  represents  brewing  at  its  best. 
Shortly  after  leaving  the  brewery  I  passed  a 
dingy  saloon  at  No.  12  Aungier  Street.  It 
occupied  the  ground  floor  of  a  three  story 
brick  building,  set  into  the  wall  of  which  was 
a  bust  of  Erin's  sweetest  singer,  Thomas 
Moore.  It  was  his  birthplace,  now  befouled 
by  the  destroyer  of  genius.  That  night  I  saw 
drunken  women  upon  the  street,  and  men 
whose  depleted  attire  and  bloated  faces 
marked  the  track  of  the  demon.  Out  of  the 
proceeds   of  the   brewery   and   distillery,    art 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  157 

galleries    are    enriched,    science    is    succored, 
cathedrals  are  built,  yet  the  bones  of  its  vic- 
tims are  piling  higher  in  the  abyss,  and  the 
blackness  of  despair  engulfs  the  innocent  and 
the  helpless.  Burke,  Balfe,  Sheridan  and  many 
others     of    world-wide  reputation     could    be 
added  to  the  list  of  those  who  have  helped  to 
make  Dublin    famous    as    the    birthplace    of 
genius.  Yet  the  brewery  is  no  friend  to  brains. 
To  the  Hill  of  Howth,  northern  sentinel  of 
the  Dublin  Bay,  I  would  offer  the  tribute  of 
grateful  memory.    On  a  fair  midsummer  after- 
noon I  boarded  a  tram  at  the  Nelson  Pillar  and 
committed  myself  to  its  urban  and  suburban 
windings  for  a  nine  mile  ride  to  the  terminus. 
The  tracks  run  close  to  the  edge  of  the  Bay 
for    almost   the    whole    distance,    affording    a 
most   enjoyable  view   of  the   great  waterway 
approach  to  the   capital  with   the  protecting 
walls  and  lights  of  the  harbor.     The  tide  was 
out,  and  the  hard  clay  of  the  bottom  thus  left 
bare  a  few  hours,  was  being  utilized  as  a  bicycle 
track  by  spry  young  people  returning  from 
their  labors  in  the  city.     It  required  but  the 
passing  of  a  few  wheels  over  the  bed  of  clay 
to  mark  out  an  ideal  course,  smooth,  hard  and 
dry,  and  there  were  many  ready  to  take  advan- 


158  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

tage  of  it.  Having  passed  along  Talbot  Street 
and  North  Strand  and  across  Annesley  Bridge, 
and  following  the  curve  of  the  shore  line,  the 
car  made  good  progress  toward  Howth,  passing 
many  pretty  suburban  homes  and  several 
towns,  the  name  of  one  of  which  is  writ  large 
in  the  annals  of  Ireland.  Clontarf!  There  is 
energy  in  that  word.  It  is  thunderous  with 
the  crashing  of  the  battle  axe  and  spear.  You 
who  have  forgotten  the  story  of  the  Battle  of 
Clontarf  will  find  excitement  in  the  rereading 
of  the  important  chronicle.  "The  glorious  day 
of  Clontarf"  they  call  it,  these  writers  of 
things  stranger  than  fiction.  If  the  shedding 
of  blood  and  the  conquest  of  enemies  at  high 
cost  can  make  glorious  the  day  of  enactment, 
then  that  Good  Friday  of  the  year  1014  should 
be  chiseled  high  up  on  the  granite  of  fame. 
Brian  Boru,  King  of  all  Ireland,  white  and 
long  of  hair  and  beard,  scarred  with  many 
scars,  sword  in  one  hand,  crucifix  in  other, 
enthused  his  20,000  followers  with  his  passion- 
ate appeal  for  "Faith  and  Fatherland." 
Against  the  pagan  Danes  they  fought  with  a 
frenzy  of  religious  and  patriotic  zeal.  And  on 
that  day  ended  the  Danish  power  in  Ireland. 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  159 

Every  chieftain  remembered,  no  doubt,  the  call 
ef  their  venerable  leader : — 

"Men    of    Erin!      Men    of    Erin!      grasp    the 

battle-axe  and  spear, 
Chase  these  Northern  wolves  before  you  like 

a  herd  of  frightened  deer! 
Burst   their    ranks,    like    bolts    from    heaven! 

Down  on  the  heathen  crew, 
For  the   glory   of   the    Crucified,    and   Erin's 
glory  too." 

I  tried  to  fancy  the  long  line  of  Norse 
galleys  reaching  almost  to  Howth  from  the 
mouth  of  the  Liffey,  commanded  by  Admiral 
Brodar.  The  fleet  had  entered  the  Bay  on 
Palm  Sunday.  When  the  line  of  battle  was 
formed  its  centre  was  at  Clontarf.  I  tried  to 
picture  in  my  mind  the  embattled  host  holding 
the  shore  from  Dublin  to  Dollymount.  Men 
they  must  have  been  of  warlike  mein,  thick 
bearded,  flaxen  haired,  sinewy  frames,  lumpy 
muscles,  with  the  spirit  of  conquest  in  their 
hearts, — mail-clad  Norwegians,  Baltic  auxil- 
iaries, British  allies.  Over  against  them, 
northward,  were  the  divisions  of  the  Irish  army 
representing  many  counties  and  corners  of  the 
country,  all  panting  for  the  conflict.  It  began 
early    in    the    day    and    was    a    hand-to-hand 


160  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

combat  wherein  a  soldier  rushed  at  his  enemy 
and  glared  his  hatred  full  to  his  face  as  he 
swung  the  axe  or  drave  the  spear.  I  tried  to 
fancy  it  all,  I  say,  bnt  could  not.  It  seemed 
so  utterly  incomprehensible,  so  absolutely  im- 
possible, so  severely  incongruous.  All  that  I 
could  see  evidenced  peace,  industry,  enter- 
prise, enjoyment,  life, — a  tranquil  bay  rimmed 
with  quiet  beauty,  zephyr-stroked  and  sun- 
kissed. 

Arrived  at  Howth,  I  walked  out  upon  the 
great  pier  2700  feet  long,  having  a  lighthouse 
at  the  end,  the  keeper  of  which  allowed  me  to 
scan  the  sea  with  his  powerful  glass.  About  a 
mile  toward  the  north  rose  the  rocky  island 
known  as  "Ireland's  Eye,"  whereon  could  be 
descried  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  chapel.  In 
the  opposite  direction  the  hill  rose  high  behind 
the  town,  the  historic  old  Hill  of  Howth,  cul- 
minating in  Slieve  Martin,  560  feet  above  the 
sea.  There  are  many  holy  hills  outside  of 
Palestine.  In  all  countries  and  in  every  life's 
experience  there  are  Zions  and  Carmels  and 
Tabors  and  Hermons.  To  me  Howth  became 
the  Mount  of  Transfiguration,  whereon  I  wit- 
nessed a  vision,  the  glory  of  which  shines  even 
upon  the  page  as  I  write.     Tufted  with  fern 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE,  161 

and  fir  and  heather,  haloed  by  the  soft  twi- 
light and  caressed  by  the  gentlest  of  breezes, 
the  stern  old  promontory  exuding  the  memo- 
ries of  millenniums  was  verily  an  inspired 
prophet,  making  revelation  of  things  that 
were,  of  things  that  are,  and  are  yet  to  be. 
Before  me  lay  the  smooth,  curving  sea,  like  a 
crystal  bridge  arching  toward  the  happy  island 
yonder.  To  the  left  stretched  the  long,  irregu- 
lar line  of  the  Irish  coast,  with  Ireland's  Eye 
blinking  in  the  deepening  shadows,  and  the 
amethystine  sea  horizoned  by  the  turquoise 
sky  in  the  distance.  Turning  toward  the  right 
I  caught  the  sweep  of  the  Dublin  Bay  with 
the  Wicklow  Mountains  rolling  back  south- 
ward to  meet  the  pink  tinted  clouds  gathering 
for  their  vesper  devotions.  A  long  black 
smoke  streak  marked  the  course  of  a  steamer 
just  entering  the  Bay,  and  the  harbor  lights 
were  beginning  to  appear  for  their  night 
watches.  The  sun  had  some  time  since  dropped 
behind  the  fringing  hills,  but  was  sending  back 
such  brilliant  beams  of  light  that  the  hovering 
clouds  looked  like  angel  bands  in  festal  robes. 
Never,  even  in  the  most  gorgeous  Oriental 
silks,  have  such  colors  been  woven  into 
textures  made  by  hands.    Edges  of  purest  gold 


162  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

were  there,  framing  clouds  of  brown,  gray, 
purple  and  blue,  all  suffused  with  the  most 
delicate  and  elusive  pink, — a  transparent  veil 
of  glory  thrown  over  glory's  face.  I  expected 
that  in  less  than  forty  hours  I  would  be  sailing 
in  the  direction  of  that  declining  sun,  toward 
the  happy  land  which  would  catch  its  healing 
light  for  hours  after  the  valleys  of  old  Ireland 
were  hidden  in  the  night.  I  was  all  the  more 
impressionable,  no  doubt,  on  account  of  that 
expectation.  The  peace  of  God  was  upon  the 
summit,  and  everywhere,  and  old  Erin  seemed 
afloat  upon  a  sea  of  pearl  lifted  free  from  the 
billows  of  adversity  to  return  to  the  depths  no 
more  forever. 


XXI.      COMPLETING    THE    CIECLE. 

On  the  following  day  my  route  Lay  through 
County  Wicklow,  the  "Garden  of  Ireland," 
past  the  famous  seaside  resorts,  Bray  and 
Greystones,  Wicklow  and  its  fine  harbor,  and 
on  along  the  Avonmore  River,  through  the 
Vale  of  Ovoca  where  meet  the  waters  famed  in 
the  verses  of  Moore : — 

"There  is  not  in  this  wide  world  a  valley  so 

sweet 
As  the  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters 

meet ; 
Oh!  the  last  rays  of  feeling   and  life  must 

depart, 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from 

my  heart." 

— which  same   'twould  be  a  sin  to  omit  from 
any  sensible  book  on  Ireland. 

No  one  would  deny  the  beauty  of  the  Meet- 
ing Place  of  the  Waters,  and  there  are  two 
such  places  of  either  one  of  which  Moore  may 
have  written,— one  where  the  Avonmore  joins 
the  Avonberg  and  the  other  at  Wooden  Bridge 
where  the  Aughrim  and  the  Gold  Mines  meet 
the  Ovoca.    I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  rippling 


164  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

waters  as  they  join  company  at  Wooden 
Bridge.  It  is  a  rich  and  lovely  scene  but  not 
more  so,  I  think,  than  a  thousand  places  un- 
sung. The  poet  is  a  wand  waver.  His  lovers 
will  look  through  the  amber  colored  glasses  of 
their  affection  and  behold  in  the  scene  exalted 
by  their  singer  a  celestial  charm  otherwise  un- 
observed. Yet  I  would  that  such  beatific 
visions  were  more  rather  than  less  numerous, 
and  that  every  prospect  might  find  its  poet. 

Turning  for  the  moment  from  the  considera- 
tion of  nature's  garden  array,  I  recall  that  the 
man  who  shared  my  compartment  and  who 
pointed  out  the  reputed  meeting  place  of  the 
waters,  declared  himself  to  be  an  advocate  of 
the  Sinn  Fein  movement,  in  which  subject  I  at 
once  became  interested  and  started  the  inter- 
rogative machinery  at  full  pressure.  He  was  a 
well  dressed  man  of  perhaps  forty-five  years 
of  age,  coal  black  hair  and  moustache,  ex- 
pressive eyes  and  pleasing  voice.  He  was 
taking  his  daughters,  two  beautiful  little  girls 
hardly  in  their  teens,  for  a  visit  to  grandma's 
at  Wexford.  Dear  grandma,  I  opine,  was  joy- 
ously anticipating  their  arrival,  for  better  be- 
haved little  ladies  never  went  on  a  vacation. 
To  understand  the  spirit  and  scope  of  various 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 


165 


present  day  parties  and  movements  in  Ireland 
is  not  the  simplest  task  in  the  world,  but  it  is 
essential  to  anything  that  approaches  a  fair 
interpretation  of  Irish  thought  and  aspiration. 
How  many  of  us  in  America,  for  instance, 
could  on  the  moment  make  clear  the  distinc- 
tion between  the  policies  of  the  Sinn  Fein  and 
those  of  the  Parliamentarians  and  the  Union- 
ists, or  state  the  principles  of  the  Gaelic 
League?  Mr.  Redmond,  Mr.  O'Connor,  and  all 
the  other  Irish  M.  P.'s  are  technically  traitors 
according  to  the  doctrines  of  the  Sinn  Feiners. 
By  the  same  token  every  man  in  the  country 
who  voted  to  send  them  to  Parliament  must  be 
traitors.  For  why?  There  is  no  lawful  Union. 
Parliament  legislates  for  Ireland  only  by  illegal 
usurpation  and  is  not  to  be  recognized  there- 
fore by  any  true  citizen  of  the  sovereign  State 
of  Ireland.  This  is  the  way  the  Constitution 
begins : — 

"The  object  of  the  National  Council  is  the 
re-establishment  of  the  Independence  of  Ire- 
land. The  aim  of  the  Sinn  Fein  Policy  is  to 
unite  Ireland  on  this  broad  National  plat- 
form— First,  That  we  are  a  distinct  nation; 
Second,  That  we  will  not  make  any  voluntary 
agreement    with    Great    Britain,    until    Great 


166  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

Britain  keeps  her  own  compact  which  she  made 
by  the  Renunciation  Act  of  1783,  which  en- 
acted 'that  the  right  claimed  by  the  people  of 
Ireland  to  be  bound  only  by  laws  enacted  by 
his  Majesty  and  the  Parliament  of  that  King- 
dom is  hereby  declared  to  be  established,  and 
ascertained  forever,  and  shall  at  no  time  here- 
after be  questioned  or  questionable. '  Third, 
That  we  are  determined  to  make  use  of  any 
powers  we  have,  or  may  have  at  any  time  in 
the  future  to  work  for  our  own  advancement 
and  for  the  creation  of  a  prosperous  virile  and 
independent  nation. " 

"That  the  people  of  Ireland  are  a  free 
people  and  that  no  law  made  without  their 
authority  or  consent  is  or  ever  can  be  binding 
on  their  conscience. " 

Among  other  things  the  Sinn  Fein  Constitu- 
tion provides  for  the  protection  of  Irish  indus- 
tries and  commerce,  an  Irish  Consular  Service, 
an  Irish  Mercantile  Marine,  a  National  Bank, 
a  National  Stock  Exchange,  a  National  Civil 
Service.  Branches  of  the  organization  are  es- 
tablished in  England,  Scotland  and  America, 
as  well  as  in  twenty-five  of  the  thirty-two 
counties  of  Ireland. 

The   work   of  the   Gaelic   League   is   educa- 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 


167 


tional  and  industrial  rather  than  political.  It 
is  non-sectarian  also,  and  all  the  more  to  be 
praised  on  that  account.  It  stands  first  for  the 
revival  and  preservation  of  the  Irish  language. 
I  doubt  not,  however,  that  in  the  wider  sweep 
of  its  growing  energies  it  will  touch  the  circle 
of  the  Irish  problem  at  many  points.  Over  900 
branches  are  now  affiliated  with  the  Executive 
Council,  the  required  minimum  membership  of 
a  branch  being  fifteen.  The  League  is  but 
sixteen  years  old.  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde  is  its 
honored  president. 

The  longer  I  talked  with  my  quasi  in- 
structor the  more  I  realized  that  the  causes  of 
Ireland's  unrest  are  many,  acting  and  reacting 
upon  each  other— a  tangle  of  causes  not  to  be 
stated  in  a  sentence  and  not  to  be  understood 
in  a  day.  Mad  jerking  does  not  unsnarl  a 
tangle.  Slowly  the  fingers  of  wisdom,  justice, 
statesmanship  and  patriotism  are  loosening  the 
knots,  and  Ireland  is  being  prepared  for  a  visi- 
tation of  prosperity  such  as  may  atone  in  part 
for  past  adversities. 

A  few  hours  at  Waterford  afforded  oppor- 
tunity for  some  hasty  observations  of  the 
streets,  buildings  and  people  of  that  famous 
old  town.     Keginald,  the  Dane,  built  a  tower 


168  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

in  1003,  which  still  stands  on  the  Mall,  an 
object  of  pride  to  the  city  and  of  profound 
interest  to  the  visitor.  When  first  an  English 
king  essayed  to  set  the  royal  foot  upon  Irish 
soil,  he  sailed  up  the  Eiver  Suir  for  some 
fifteen  miles  from  the  harbor's  mouth,  and 
stepped  ashore  at  Waterford.  To  chronicle 
all  the  tragic  events  in  the  history  of  Water- 
ford  from  the  days  of  King  Henry  would 
require  a  patient  pen  and  many  pages.  Far 
more  gracious  is  the  privilege  of  calling  to 
mind  the  incidents  of  an  afternoon's  leisurely 
stroll  in  and  about  the  city. 

The  railway  station  is  hard  by  the  north 
end  of  the  long  wooden  bridge  leading 
to  the  main  portion  of  the  city  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  river.  The  bridge  is 
over  800  feet  long  and  was  built  by 
an  American  architect  more  than  a  hundred 
years  ago.  It  was  evidently  a  good  job, 
well  done  and  at  a  final  cost  considerably  less 
than  the  estimate.  How  such  a  thing  could 
ever  have  happened  is  probably  a  puzzle  to 
bridge  builders  the  world  around.  Verily  all 
things  are  possible  to  an  American.  The  view 
from  the  bridge  held  me  for  some  time  in 
rapt   enjoyment.     The   slate-gray  river  swept 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  169 

in  a  strong  current  beneath  the  bridge  and  on 
towards  its  confluence  with  the  Barrow.  Ships 
there  were  in  plenty  to  take  care  of  Water- 
ford's  large  export  trade.  There  was  the  great 
quay  and  behind  it  tier  after  tier  of  stone 
houses  as  the  city  rose  toward  the  crest  of  the 
kill.  A  most  inspiring  perspective  of  river  and 
mountain  lay  toward  the  southwest.  Some 
prize  cattle  were  being  led  across  the  bridge, 
proud,  seemingly,  of  the  honors  won  at  the 
animal  fair  then  in  progress.  Bulls,  cows, 
sheep,  pigs  and  horses,  beautifully  propor- 
tioned and  carefully  groomed  they  were,  sure 
prize  winners  anywhere.  Workmen  were  busy 
repairing  the  planking.  Loiterers  gazed  idly 
into  the  river  or  sat  lazily  sunning  themselves 
upon  the  wooden  benches  that  line  the  prome- 
nade. Old  men  predominated.  Down  along 
the  quay  could  be  seen  the  rounded  walls  of 
Keginald's  Tower,  and  out  against  the  back- 
ground of  the  hill,  as  in  bold  bas-relief,  stood 
slanting  roofs  and  tapering  steeples.  Such 
was  my  first  glimpse  of  Waterford  as  it  left  its 
outline  upon  my  memory. 

Later  I  indulged  myself  in  a  long  walk  out 
over  the  hill  beyond  the  town,  in  the  course  of 
which  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  one  of  the 


170  AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE. 

belles  of  Waterford — a  very  little  belle  to  be 
sure,  but  all  the  more  interesting  and  none  the 
less  a  belle  on  that  account.  She  was  stylishly 
gowned  (fashions  change)  in  a  pink  calico 
dress.  She  had  golden  hair,  uneducated,  and 
the  kind  of  blue  eyes  the  singers  sing  about. 
She  was  somewhat  crippled  and  wore  neither 
shoes  nor  stockings.  I  have  said  she  was 
small.  I  saw  her  trudging  along  ahead  of  me 
up  through  the  long  hillside  street,  lugging  a 
basket  of  potatoes  so  heavy  that  she  could 
hardly  lift  it  from  the  sidewalk.  When  I  over- 
took her  I  ventured  to  offer  help,  which  she 
accepted  by  simply  letting  go  of  the  basket.  I 
picked  it  up  and  she  limped  along  by  my  side, 
evidently  grateful  for  the  assistance  but  too 
bashful  to  say  a  word.  I  supposed  it  would  be 
a  matter  of  a  block  or  so,  but  it  proved  to  be  a 
mile  or  more,  I  carrying  the  "praties"  and 
she  just  "taggin'  on."  We  passed  many 
citizens  who  eyed  me  askance  but  offered  no 
word  of  comment.  After  a  while  I  began  to 
wonder  if  I  would  have  to  adopt  the  child, 
nobody  seeming  to  own  her,  and  calculated  on 
the  basket  as  an  asset  in  the  account.  Dis- 
tances between  houses  grew  wider  and  wider 
and  the  street  became  a  road  before  the  little 


AROUND     THE     EMERALD     ISLE.  171 

pink  lady  indicated  our  arrival  somewhere, 
which  she  did  by  grabbing  the  basket  and 
disappearing  through  a  gateway  in  a  white- 
washed wall,  over  which  I  could  just  see  the 
upper  half  of  a  neat  little  cottage.  I  had  lost 
both  girl  and  potatoes  and  was  conscious  of 
vague  regret,  for  I  had  begun  to  enjoy  the 
silent  companionship  of  the  unfortunate  child. 
Many  children  find  life  an  up  hill  climb,  and 
blessed  are  ye  if  ye  lighten  the  load  and 
brighten  the  way  for  such  a  one.  The  little 
girl  cripple  in  the  pink  slip  dress  has  become 
to  me  a  symbol  of  earth's  trudge  and  drudge, 
awaiting  on  every  hillside  the  hand  of  help. 

At  a  rather  late  hour  that  night  I  arrived 
again  at  Queenstown,  to  sail  the  next  morning 
for  the  homeland.  So  the  ends  of  the  journey 
came  together,  and  I  had  completed  a  loop 
"Around  the  Emerald  Isle." 


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